


The Wolves of the North

by Arometic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All knowing Bran, And post season 8, Arya and Sansa sibling relationship explored, Arya and Sansa working together, Badass Arya, Badass Sansa, During Season 8, Fight Scenes, Gen, Jon and Arya sibling relationship explored, OG characters - Freeform, Political manoeuvring, Princess Arya Stark, Prophecies, Queen Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Wars, Work In Progress, badass woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2020-04-24 00:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 202,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19162006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arometic/pseuds/Arometic
Summary: (Work in progress)(This story has now shifted into post season 8 with Sansa as Queen in the North, Jon/Arya off on their adventures.)A story adding to season 8 of Game of Thrones. Going through the lives of the Starks before the Long Night and after, in through the sack and burning of King's Landing and after. While laying a foundation for future, original plots. Done through the eyes of Arya, Sansa, Jon and others.It runs in tandem with the plot of the show, then once my stories catch up to the show at the end of season 8's plot. This story will begin to be far more original once the events of season 8 come to a conclusion. Most of what is referenced are from the show but there is a bit from the books as well, consider it a mish-mash of the two.





	1. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa dwells on the coming challenges, organises her people and gets an unexpected visit.

_Lord Glover had refused the call to fight for the Starks, in a war that was bound to kill us all._ Sansa thought as she folded the parchment in her palms. She closed her eyes and listened to the hearth crackle, warming her solar, just as the fury of Lord Glover’s betrayal warmed her bones.

Sansa stood in the high tower of Winterfell’s Lord’s Chambers and once more opened her eyes then gazed out her window, casting her eyes across her home. The sun peered through the clouds throwing wisps of silver light down upon the castle. Winter snow fell, flecking the grey castle battlements with white. She peered beyond the castle to the vastness of the North. The largest Kingdom in the realm, of which all its lands and people were now Sansa's responsibility to protect and lead.

She returned her view to inside the grey walls of the castle which, over the last several days, had begun to fill with refugees from the country who resided in villages or smaller holdfasts to the north. These people had sought the protection of the Starks of Winterfell from the White Walkers and with them, the Long Night. Aged men and women wearing tattered furs, rough-spun cloaks and patched leathers sought sustenance within the castle. They walked towards a makeshift outdoor kitchen, whilst a group of children kicked around a ball made of crude and hard leather. Soldiers sworn to the Starks were in the castle courtyards training common folk made up of children, men and women, with sword and shield. Spear, axe and hammer. Her brother, as Warden of the North, had commanded that every man, woman and child that was able to fight should be trained and armoured. Sansa did not like to embrace that thought, but she believed Jon when he told her of the immense threat that was the Night King, his White Walkers and their army of dead. Jon had fought them first hand on two separate occasions and lost the battle both times. So she agreed that they needed every person that could fight, _to_ fight.

Northerners with their thick beards and their bodies layered in wool and fur had begun building caltrops from wood taken out of the Wolfswood, spiked with Dragonglass that Jon had brought back from Dragonstone, the seat of House Targaryen. As they did, an ear-splitting screech filled the cold air as one of Daenerys's dragons flew over Winterfell. The dragons black scales, sprinkled with white snow, had flown alarmingly low over the castle whilst the people in the courtyard looked up in horror at the sight. After their brief shock and reprise, they slowly returned to their tasks. Dragons in the north were something most people would not get used to anytime soon. The Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen who styled herself as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, now resided in Sansa's home. The daughter of the Mad King who murdered Sansa's uncle and grandfather, the sister of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen who had raped and murdered Sansa's aunt Lyanna Stark. She gritted her teeth as these thoughts crossed her mind.

 _The North remembers, nobody more than the Starks,_ she thought to herself. Jon was named King in the North making the North once again independent, just as they wanted. But he sacrificed that and bent the knee to the dragon, though Sansa knew he did that out of his love for his queen, even if he would not admit it. Love makes people do stupid things and Sansa was not going to kneel to this Daenerys Targaryen or her dragons no matter how hot their fire burns or how loud their roars tore apart the skies. She knew what a lust for power and control did to a person, at first sight of Daenerys she had reminded Sansa of all the power-hungry manipulators Sansa knew when she was a child prisoner in King's Landing. One of whom, Cersei Lannister, now rules at the Capital with a lion's iron fist.

 _I am a child no longer,_ Sansa would not let her or her family become prisoners again or be manipulated by those who deemed to have power. Daenerys had that power and claimed to have come north to fight Jon's war out of love for him. “Tell me, who manipulated whom,” Sansa remembered the Dragon Queen saying.

 _You’ve seen the army of the dead, yet you say Jon manipulated you to fight them, even when they are a threat to the very kingdoms you claim to be the protector of?_ Sansa let out an audible sigh and shook her head in disgust. Even with her sacrifices, Daenerys would make to help in this war, Sansa could never trust her to be a good ruler. Power is power and power corrupts, but all these thoughts about queens and dragons and power and murdered family clouded Sansa's mind and made her blood thicken. She closed her eyes again, in thought.

She found herself thinking of her family, in particular, her sister, Arya. She tried to channel the strength her sister had and the calm demeanour in which she portrayed herself, despite her own demons Arya was fighting in her mind. As she thought of her little sister, she grabbed at the needle pendant hanging by her waist, fashioned after Arya’s own sword called Needle, Sansa had made it as a reminder of the strength of her sister and the new bond and understanding they now shared. Sansa let out a deep breath and let the pendant fall back to her waist. She turned to face the old Maester Wolkan, and to his left, the Lord Protector of the Vale and Sansa's strongest ally Bronze Yohn Royce. Sansa took her place at the head of the office table, sat and unfurled Lord Glover’s parchment in her hand.

"So Lord Glover will send a small supply of food but nothing else," she sighed in annoyance.

Once they dealt with the dead, she would deal with the wind vane that was Robett Glover. She tossed the parchment, marked with the sigil of the fist of House Glover, onto her table and brought her attention to Wolkan. "Any news from White Harbor Maester?"

"Only the raven Lord Manderly sent that arrived a few days ago, my lady," Maester Wolkan said in an aged and timid voice. "He is making his way to Winterfell as we speak with soldiers and a small provision of food, he should arrive before nightfall."

Sansa contemplated a moment before speaking. "Bronze, could you ride south with an honour guard and meet Lord Wyman on the Kingsroad? Escort him and his men to Winterfell and pass on my apologies for not greeting them myself."

"Of course, my lady," he said in his unmistakable deep voice.

"Maester, I've heard whispers that our men are becoming restless and the common people more fearful by the minute," Sansa said, though knowing full well what the response would be.

"Many know of the stories of the Long Night that happened thousands of years ago, my lady, the fear of it happening again worries them," Wolkan offered.

"Stories of a looming army of dead will not help our soldiers fight, nor will it keep our people calm. Go about the castle before dusk and speak to as many commoners and soldiers and tell them we will be having a feast in the courtyards and that all are welcome."

"As you command, my lady. Should we have some food brought to you inside the castle?"

"No, I will eat outside tonight." She thought of her father. Eddard Stark would take a different person every night into the Great Hall to have dinner with them, to hear their stories, their problems and their needs. She remembered a night that seemed like a lifetime ago, Mikken the Blacksmith was brought in to feast, she recalled his gaudy laugh and toothless smile, his great grey beard and wrinkled skin. She remembered how he made her father laugh, the smile he wore and his grey loving eyes. She remembered her mother Catelyn speaking to Mikkens wife. The way her long auburn hair of the Tullys flowed, the hair Sansa had inherited, though hers was a much brighter red than her mother had. "Kissed by Fire," Tormund of the Free Folk would call Sansa.

She reminisced happily about her mother's love, her warm hands and soft smile. She missed her mother and father, she wished they were here. She wished her father could see how strong Arya had become, despite the things she has been through and the things she has done. But Sansa caught herself thinking of Jon and her mother. Catelyn had never loved him, she blamed and cursed him, every second of his presence was a reminder to her mother of things she would rather forget. But Sansa still wished she were here, she yearned that her mother could see how close she and Jon had become since they were children and all the things he has done to protect their family and their home.

_If mother were here, she would forgive Jon and thank him for all he has done for us, for me. She would see all that he has done for her daughters and her son and the North and she would call Jon a Stark. I know she would. He deserves that much._

The door to Sansa's solar opened and one of her personal guards entered with a half confused, half dumbfounded look on his face. "I don't mean to intrude, Lady Sansa, apologies," the guard said.

Sansa raised her head to meet the guard with the great brown beard and smiled. "There is nothing to forgive Aberdale. What is it?"

"It's Lord Varys, m'lady. He wishes to speak to you,"

Sansa's smile faded _the spider._ She knew of Lord Varys from her time in King's Landing and heard more since then, a man that changes loyalty almost as often as the weather changes. He had now declared for Daenerys Targaryen.

 _No doubt she has a hand in Lord Varys wanting to speak to me._ Sansa questioned. _I will trust this man as far as I can throw him._ She raised her chin and nodded to Aberdale, and he retreated beyond the door, at this Sansa rose from her chair, Maester Wolkan and Lord Royce followed and bowed to Sansa. As they began to exit the solar Lord Varys entered, the three exchanged titles and courtesies, but Sansa noticed Lord Royce's bow to Varys was quite stiff and stilted, this could not help but amuse Sansa, though she caught her smile before it appeared on her face and told herself to remain stoic.

After Maester Wolkan and Lord Royce left the solar, Aberdale closed the door as he bowed to Sansa. Lord Varys moved towards the table in small placated steps before stopping. "Lady Sansa." The bald man bowed low and let it linger before returning upright.

"Lord Varys," Sansa spoke in a flat tone and returned the bow, though with not even half as much effort as he put into his. "Spiders do not do well in the North."

Varys's smiled. "Neither do Mockingbirds," the smile was cutting as he spoke. "Or so I have heard."

Sansa made her eyes linger on Varys. The eunuch wore dark robes with black embroidery in the form of dragon scales that lined his collar and sleeves. His hairless head adorned a round face with small beady eyes and a pleasant, practised smile that Sansa had seen before on many people. She walked across the room to a table next to the hearth, on it lay a wine pitcher and several pewter goblets. The pitcher was filled with a red wine of the Abor, sweet and musty.

"I'm sure you've heard much and more, my lord." She began to pour the wine into two goblets and listened as she heard the spider weave his web.

"I have heard that a certain Lord Baelish of the Fingers had met an untimely and unpredictable death at the hands of his protege and her sister."

She drew her eyes upward at that and grinned to herself. Picking up both goblets, Sansa turned to face Varys and handed him one with a smile and motioned towards an empty chair for him to sit in.

"Why would you have any interest in Northern matters?" She mused, pacing back around the table and taking her seat once again.

Varys spoke as he began to sit. "I am an adviser to the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her Grace only wishes to know why the former Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Protector of the Vale was sentenced to trial and executed by the Lady of Winterfell. And for me personally, he was a dear friend," he took a swig of his wine.

Sansa heard the lies he muttered and the unspoken meaning between his words, she noticed the Spiders eyes dart across her room as he drank. A voice echoed in her mind. _Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of event is happening, all at once. Everything that happens will be something you will have seen before._

Sansa took a drink of her wine, the sweet red smell of Arbor berries filled her senses, and the wine tingled on her tongue.

"I would not have thought Her Grace would acknowledge titles given to those by the usurpers of her throne," she said, returning to her goblet for a second drink.

Varys smiled. "A mere courtesy."

"Is it?" She replied sharply. "Her Grace wishes to know why I had ordered the execution of the man who betrayed my family. The man who was behind the War of the Five Kings. The man who had sold me to the Boltons and then tried to turn my sister and I against each other? The North and the Vale demanded justice for everything Lord Baelish did, and I gave it."

Sansa could see Varys begin nodding before a look of curiosity came upon his face. "And they respect you for it, love you even. But he had done all those things and yet you still kept him close for such a long time?"

Sansa's grip on her goblet tightened. "Better the enemy you know, then the stranger you don't," she said.

"And who was the stranger, my lady?"

She paused a moment before letting herself breathe. "The game.”

"Ahh, the _great game_ ," Varys leaned back in his chair. "I am sure Littlefinger had taught you much, he was a smart man, ambitious, ruthless and I admired him for it. Is the game still a stranger to you?"

 _No,_ she thought, _we are playing it right now._ "I have yet to find out, I don't believe I have been tested," Sansa remarked, in her best impression of an uncertain little girl.

"The game is indeed terrifying," Varys said. "Even more so now that we live in a world of dragons and White Walkers. Your brother, Lord Snow, has said it most astutely. We need to stand together and be allies in these uncertain times. Together we can survive, and together we can fight back against the tyrant enemy down south, for the good of the realm." Varys’s eyes seemed to stare through Sansa's. "An enemy you know well."

"I told Jon, Lord Tyrion and Her Grace, not to trust Cersei, but they did, and she broke their trust," she replied.

"As I said, my lady, an enemy you know well," his smile cut again, but Sansa could see that he felt proud of himself. "Queen Daenerys is a stranger to you, but as long as you cooperate, you have no reason to fear her and to—”

"Fear?" Sansa made the word sharp. She made it cut into Varys's words as Arya's dagger had cut into Littlefinger's throat. "Do you fear her, my lord?"

"Any ruler must know how to inspire fear and show mercy when they are necessary," Varys responded.

"Mmm," Sansa contemplated on that, and she placed her goblet of wine on the table. "Forgive me; I don’t know Daenerys. I want to believe in her, do you truly believe in her?"

"I travelled across the Narrow Sea to support her, my lady.”

"So you believe she is the best for the realm?"

"I do, she saved thousands of lives in Essos," Varys replied

" _Slaves_ ," corrected Sansa.

"Indeed, but lives all the same."

"Yes, they are," Sansa said. "And she did save them, I am sure they are grateful. But there are no slaves in Westeros. I can only hope the choices she makes for Westerosi lives are for the good of the realm."

"As do I," he replied. "Queen Daenerys has her trusted advisers to help her make those choices as any good ruler does."

"Yes, just as Lord Tyrion helped her make the decision to burn the Tarly's alive," she reproached. Varys shifted uncomfortably in his chair. She saw him take a short swallow and watched his eyes glance around lightning quick before he looked back at her. She knew the truth of it now. "Or was that her own choice?" Sansa mocked. "All this talk of her listening to advisers…” She leaned forward in her chair, staring at Varys. "You have doubts in her ability to rule.”

"I don't believe I said that," Varys replied.

Sansa could only smile as she sat back into her chair. "I lived in King's Landing too, Lord Varys. We both know a person can say one thing, yet mean something completely different."

Varys face was incredulous until his lips went into a wide smile. "The game isn't a stranger to Lady Stark anymore it seems."

A knock came at Sansa's door. "Come in," she spoke toward it.

Lady Brienne entered. "Forgive my interruption, but you asked for me, my lady?" she said.

"No interruption," Sansa said, rising from her chair. "Lord Varys was just leaving."

Varys rose from his chair, placed his wine on the table and bowed deeply to Sansa then turned and bowed curtly to Brienne. "My lady, Lady Stark is fortunate to have a warrior of your skills by her side."

Brienne had a look on her face as if she did not know how to respond, she bowed her head at Varys, and he proceeded to leave Sansa's solar.

"What did he want?" Brienne said after lord Varys had left.

"What any Master of Whispers wants," Sansa said. "Information."

She turned to look out her window. The winter snows still fell on the North. The sun was near its zenith as it peered through the thin clouds gifting the land with specs of white light, it was almost noon. She turned back to her table and began writing on a blank parchment.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Brienne said.

"There is," Sansa replied eagerly. She blew air on the wet ink on parchment, confident that it was dry she rolled it up tightly. "Head down to the courtyards, look for children wearing old direwolf pins and give one of them this." She handed the parchment to her trusted adviser and loyal protector. "They will know what to do."

"Children?" Brienne questioned, grabbing the parchment.

"Orphaned children of Northern families that fought for the Starks and were loyal to us. When you have done that return here, then at noon we will leave again."

"Yes, my lady," Brienne bowed her head and proceeded out of the solar.

Sansa picked up her goblet of wine and drank deeply.

* * *

They walked through Winterfell's courtyards, past groups training, through stores of caltrops, by servants cooking in the yard kitchens and finally, they arrived at the door to Winterfell's underground. "Stay here, make sure no one enters," Sansa commanded Lady Brienne as she opened the large door and headed down into the depths.

The steps of the crypts were lit by scones every few feet. The air was colder down here, Sansa had to wrap herself tightly in her cloak as she descended into the ever eerie darkness. There was a time when she was younger when the crypts of Winterfell would scare her, the cold air and the immovable statues of her ancestors and their shadows that seem to follow her. But now she came down here often and as she walked through the halls underneath her home she felt safe and she felt amongst welcome company, she was with the Kings of Winter and her family. She finally noticed the shape of a small figure standing in front of the statue of her brother Robb, as she came closer that figure became her sister and Robb's stone direwolf, Grey Wind took its shape, curled around his master's legs. Arya was facing Robb's statue, staring intently at his image.

"The grey wind stirs at noon," Arya said, as she held up the parchment Sansa had given Brienne. "Clever wording, Lady Stark."

"You don't have to call me that in private you know," Sansa said. "Or anywhere really, you're my sister."

Arya gave her sister a quizzical look. "When I returned to Winterfell, you said I had to call you that."

"That was a joke," Sansa said flatly.

"You aren't very good at jokes, sister."

"Well, you'll have to forgive me. We're Starks. Humour isn't our strong suit."

"Keep making that excuse," Arya said wryly. "You get used to it though, calling you Lady Stark. Besides, I know you enjoy hearing it." Arya looked up at her sister and gave her a sly grin. Sansa could do nothing but roll her eyes and smile at the jest.

"So, what's happened now?" Arya said as she returned to her expressionless demeanour.

"Nothing urgent," Sansa replied. "One of the Dragon Queen's advisers came to speak to me."

"Lord Varys?" Arya ventured.

"How did you know?"

"I’ve been keeping an eye on him, on them all. I saw Varys speaking to the Dragon Queen, I saw him ask for your whereabouts and I saw him walking towards your chambers.”

Sansa was now the one with a quizzical look on her face. "Are you sure you don't want a place in my court?" She half-jokingly said. “You’d be a great deal of help.”

"No thank you," Arya replied. "I'll leave the politics to you. What did Varys want?"

"Information, he was trying to find out if I was working against his queen."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing he doesn't already know. But I did learn a few things that may help in the future."

Arya returned her gaze at her brother’s statue and nodded her head in acceptance.

"Arya," Sansa said. "Do you trust her. The Dragon Queen?"

"Jon does," Arya said evasively.

"Jon is in love with her Arya. Look at what happened to Robb," Sansa turned her gaze to Robb's statue. "Look how much love affected his war effort and where it led him. I won't let that happen to another of our brothers, not after everything Jon has been through, not after everything he has done for us and our home."

"Even if it hurts him?" Arya questioned.

"Hopefully it doesn't come to that," though even as she said that, Sansa could feel a pang of guilt tear through her. She suddenly felt regretful and sad.

"I don't want to hurt Jon,” Arya said, breaking the silence. “But I don't trust his queen. I've watched her, she is too hungry for power to be trusted and she is not, and never will be one of us.”

Sansa turned to face her sister. "Thank you for being honest with me, but I still need your help, I need your skills. Will you keep an eye on Lord Varys?"

"I will," Arya said in agreement.

"Let me know if you notice anything strange," Sansa said. "Use the little wolves if you need to. I should go before people start to wonder where I am. Thank you, Arya."Sansa turned and began to leave her sister at the statue, but a sudden thought crossed her mind and made her stop. She faced Arya once more. "Have you told Jon about the Twins. About what you did to the Freys?"

"No," Arya's answer was one that did not want further scrutiny.

"I know you are worried that what you did may concern Jon, but you should tell him, Arya," Sansa pleaded.

"Jon is a man of honour," Arya said. "Even after they betrayed and killed him, people say he still lived by his honour. Any bit of honour that I had, left me when I left Westeros."

"What are you saying?" Sansa stepped forward, not believing what her sister had just said. "You told me that you refused to kill an actress in Braavos and that is why you left the Faceless Men."

"I did, but she died anyway. People I try to save always end up dying soon after. Killing is what I am good at. I've killed many people. I fed the lord of a great house his sons, and then I assassinated him. Then I murdered the rest of his house while wearing his face. Jon being concerned is an understatement."

"Even still," Sansa said, not putting it down. "You told me about it all, but I am not a warrior like you and Jon and you two are close. He will come to understand. Speaking to him may help you with those things we talked about. It helped me when I spoke to you about Ramsay."

Arya looked up to her, with wide, sad eyes. Sansa noticed that she looked younger than she ever has since she returned to Winterfell. And Sansa realised that she isn't looking at Arya Stark, the brave, fearless warrior trained by some of the best swordsmen in the realm and honed by the dangerous Faceless Men. She is looking at Arya Stark, youngest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, and her little sister who had suffered years of torment and struggled to survive just like Sansa did.

“Arya?” Sansa asked with quiet care.

"I will think about it," Arya replied finally, in an uncharacteristically weak voice. "Thank you, Sansa."

Sansa nodded to her sister, content with the answer. She turned on her heels to walk down the halls of the crypts and began to make her way back to the surface. Noon had passed, but there was still more work to do.


	2. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime observes the Starks.

 “Fuck the north,” Jaime cursed to the air, trying his best to stay warm. “Fuck this castle.”

“If there were a way to fuck a castle, the Imp would have found it, trust me.” His little brother jested as he approached Jaime snorted. “Why don’t you stay inside the castle? It's much warmer."

“It’s much more boring.” Jaime retorted. “Besides, that meeting made the castle bleaker than it already is.”

“We’re all going to die,” Tyrion said, mimicking the words of Tormund Giantsbane. “At least the snow has stopped, let’s go for a walk.”

The two brothers walked through the castle, the afternoon sunlight cast down heavy on the snow, but it was not enough to warm Jaime Lannister. They walked past the cooking area as servants made giant pots of rabbit stew and several hundred bread bowls.

"What, are they having a feast out here?" Jaime asked.

"That is exactly what they are doing," Tyrion replied. "Lady Starks orders, a feast tonight for all the commoners and soldiers."

"A lady of the people," Jaime said, sardonically.

“Lady Sansa knows what hunger can do to people,” Tyrion remarked, as they continued walking.

The familiar sound of steel against steel caught Jaime's attention and he coerced Tyrion towards it. As they approached the training yard, they stopped at the threshold and saw Edd Tollett, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch sparring with Jon Snow.

“This will be interesting, I have never seen Snow fight,” Jaime said with eagerness.

“Have you heard the stories about him?” Tyrion asked.

Jaime looked down to his dwarf brother. “What stories?”

“He led the defence of the Wall against the Wildlings and killed the Magnar of Thenns in single combat.” Tyrion began. “He became Lord Commander and saved thousands of lives at Hardhome and defeated a White Walker in single combat.”

Jaime peered toward the sparring between Edd Tollett and Jon Snow. Tollett was a capable fighter and moved quicker than he looked, but Snow kept up, and his skill with a sword was nothing to scoff at, in fact, Jaime thought, his sword skill was exceedingly better than Tollett’s; he commanded the fight. 

“He was then betrayed for doing what was right and got stabbed in the heart,” Tyrion continued. “And he came back to life .”

Jaime looked back to his brother and scoffed. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“Dragons are flying above us. A crippled boy in this very castle who knows everything, and you have seen a dead person trying to kill our sister. Yet you don’t believe it? Jon told me the story. Brandon Stark told me the story. All the Northerns and Wildlings talk about it.”

“They are just that, stories that all these dull people love to share,” Jaime ventured as he cast his gaze back to the fight.

“The army of the dead was just a story. Dragons were just a story,” Tyrion said. “Now, they are all real.”

Jaime scoffed, but he realised the truth. “Starks,” he said. “One came back from the dead and became a King. And the other was a cripple that went beyond the wall and came back with magical powers.”

“You forgot the women,” Tyrion said.

“What about them? The small one, Arya? Don’t even see her for a second before she is gone again. Nobody really talks about her being anything special.”

“And that isn’t curious to you brother?” Tyrion quizzed. “Everyone thought she was dead after what happened in King’s Landing, then suddenly she appeared back at Winterfell, seven years later. Sauntering around the castle.”

“What are you suggesting?” Jaime said, perplexed.

“I am suggesting brother, that there is more to Arya Stark than people realise. Varys has heard rumours about her. Some say she left the Hound to die and fled to Essos and went as far as the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai to learn magic and sword skill. While others say, she went to Braavos and became a Faceless Man.”

Jaime could only scoff again. “Which one do you believe?”

“You heard what happened to the Freys?” Tyrion said.

“What of it?”

“The stories coming from there are of a Northern woman who wore the face of Walder Frey as she poisoned and murdered his entire house,” Tyrion said.

“More stories,” Jaime mocked.

“And the servants who survived spoke of that woman changing her face as easily as if she was changing clothes. And she told the survivors, that when people ask what happened, to tell them that the North remembers, and that winter came for House Frey.”

“Stark words,” Jaime allowed. _How in the hells could one little girl, like her, do something like that_? “You believe these stories are true and Arya is a Faceless Man?”

“This happened not too long before Arya returned to Winterfell based on what I have been told. It adds up. But I hardly know her to be sure; it could all just be a coincidence. Though, Sansa did tell me she was crucial to the downfall of Littlefinger and can handle herself, so she must have some skills.”

“Ahh, Sansa Stark, your wife,” Jaime said, contemptuously. “You told me she wasn’t a killer, but she had Ramsey eaten alive by his hounds and had Baelish set to trial and murdered in front many Lords and Ladies of the North and Knights of the Vale. A power move if I have ever heard one.”

“I said she wasn’t a killer, _yet_. She has changed a great deal since then.”

“So, what are her _abilities_?” Jaime asked mockingly.

“She has none, I suppose that's what makes her different,” Tyrion said. The brothers cast their gaze across the yard to Sansa Stark standing by Podrick Payne watching the sparring session. “The North has a lot of respect for her, after the things she has done and been through. And she did it all without dragons, or sword skill or magic. Just with resilience and intelligence.”

“You sound as if you admire her dear brother, you sure you don’t want to be her Hand?” Jaime said smirking.

Tyrion looked up to his brother with a rueful smile. “I do admire her. Most do, even Daenerys does. People would be fools not to.”

“She isn’t exactly friendly to your queen.”

" _Our_ queen," Tyrion corrected, "but no, she isn't.

"What do you think she is trying to do, take the Seven Kingdoms out from under Daenerys?" Jaime ventured.

"If I am honest I don't really know, Sansa has become difficult to read."

"Maybe you should go over and ask her. I'd love to see what bitchy thing she has to say." Jaime jeered.

Tyrion looked up to his brother with a frown. "You owe her a great deal, you know. It may not have been obvious to you. But Sansa's decision on whether to keep you alive or execute you carried a great deal of weight, more than most in that hall did, as much as Daenerys's decision did."

"Oh, give me a break!" Jaime threw back with frustration. "You heard what she said. She was ready to have me killed. She only changed her mind because of Brienne."

"Yes, and Sansa could change all that in a moment's notice and nobody could stop her, not even Jon. You should go over there and thank her, and show her the Jaime I know. Helping mend our houses will only be beneficial to everyone." Tyrion turned on his brother and began waddling towards Lady Stark. _Seven fucking hells_ , Jaime thought. He proceeded to follow Tyrion. Just as he began walking Daenerys Targaryen strolled into the training yard with her entourage; her commander, Grey Worm and her two advisers, Messandei and Lord Varys. Jaime picked up his pace as the Queen, and her followers walked to the opposite side of the yard and viewed the sparring session.

“Lady Sansa,” his brother said, as they approached her.

“Lady Sansa,” Jaime echoed.

Sansa Stark kept her eyes on the fight as she greeted the two Lannisters. “Lord Tyrion,” she said, though she paused a while before greeting Jaime. As if saying the words hurt her. “Ser Jaime,” she finally added, though not taking her eyes off of the fight.

Awkwardness filled the air, Jaime could have sworn he felt his brother racking his mind for something to say and finally he did. “I heard you ordered a feast for the people tonight, my lady. A good decision.” Tyrion said.

Sansa Stark's face was inscrutable. She made no sign of approval or thanks. For some reason, this annoyed Jaime. “I guess using up all the food before we all die is a good strategy. Wouldn’t have suggested it myself,” he said with an attitude.

Sansa turned her attention towards Jaime, and her eyes cast daggers at his. “Or perhaps,” she began with scorn in her voice. “Using some of the food to feed people and bring them together, to help them forget about their struggles and the fight for their lives, they will soon have is the strategy. Of course, you wouldn’t know much about the struggles the common people have, would you? Ser Jaime.”

She made is name sound like an insult, she had a way with words, and it only irritated him more. “I never really cared—"

Jaime felt a kick on his shin and looked down to Tyrion shaking his head. Jaime let out a sigh. “My apologise, Lady Stark,” he corrected himself. Just then a sword clanged to the ground as Jon disarmed his opponent and he held the point of his training sword at Edd Tollett.

“Fell for it again,” Jon said.

“Of course I did,” Edd replied. “Just my bloody luck.”

“Bah!” Tormund the Wildling boomed as he approached the two. “You need someone better and stronger to test you truly.”

“Gee, thanks,” Edd said dryly. “Hopefully the White Walkers kill me quickly, so I don’t have to live with this embarrassment. Why don’t you fight him Tormund?”

The red-haired man laughed. “No, no, I don’t want to hurt the baby crow.” He laughed again.

“He can fight me.” A call came from the entrance of the yard. The voice was small, but it had a commanding presence. 

It was Arya Stark, Jaime smiled. This just became much more interesting. She proceeded towards her half-brother with two weapons on her hips and her arms behind her back.

“Fight me,” Arya said to Jon

“You’re not strong enough, little lady,” Tormund said for Jon.

“Strength is not the only way to fight,” she glared at the Wildling. “Call me little lady again, and I will cut your little cock off.”

Tormund boomed with laughter, and the other Wildlings followed as well as Jon. Jaime moved his eyes to Sansa and noticed her giving a wide smile.

“She’s cocky,” Jaime said.

“She’s capable,” Sansa replied quickly.

“You have faith in her, I’ve seen many that had faith in others that only disappointed them.”

“Very astute of you, Ser Jaime. But you haven’t seen her do what I’ve seen her do."

“I don’t want to hurt you, Arya,” Jon said to his half-sister.

“You couldn’t hurt me if you tried for a thousand years,” she replied, whilst she drew her short sword in her left hand.

Tormund and the Wildlings boomed with laughter again, but now it was Sansa’s turn to push Jon. “Come on Jon! You’re not worried about being beaten by a woman, are you?”

Jon only shook his head in disbelief at the situation and smiled. Tormund laughed and patted him hard on the back. “Yer sisters, I like them! The one kissed by fire,” he pointed to Sansa, “and the Wild Wolf.” He pointed to Arya, “Fight her, crow. Something tells me this will be a lot of fun.”

And at that Jon nodded to Arya as he took his stance and Arya took hers, with her left foot forward and her back foot at an angle, making her stand sideways to her opponent. Her knees were bent readying to attack or defend, her right hand behind her back, her sword in her left hand pointing directly at Jon’s head. Her arm and sword were straight and disciplined, as one, not a shake or unwanted movement in her arm.

“Is that a style from Essos?” Jaime asked towards Tyrion.

“You would know better than I,” Tyrion said.

“Water dancing,” Sansa cut in. “That's what she calls it.”

“ _Dancing?_ ” Jaime said with a mock. “Dancing is not fighting.”

Sansa only smiled at that, so Jaime looked back to the two fighters.

Arya smirked before she struck, the song of steel filled the yard again. Jon parried Arya's attacks before making his own. He swung his sword in a horizontal arc from left to right at Arya's chest. The small Stark pushed off her front foot to dart back, and with the momentum of Jon’s swing, she used her sword to push his further away. Jon had predicted this though and the bastard Stark used that momentum to arc his sword into a downward strike on his sister. But Arya moved lightning-fast and simply did a pirouette to the side and tapped her sword on his in mocking.

Jaime looked around at the others, Sansa was still smirking as was Podrick. Queen Daenerys's mouth was agape, Varys and Grey Worm wore a frown and Tormund was grinning from ear to ear.

“She is quick,” Tyrion offered.

“She is,” Jaime allowed. _Quick is an understatement brother._

The spar continued as the siblings matched strike for strike, though Arya dodged more than she parried. “You’re holding back,” Arya said, as the two separated again. “Fight me!” She screamed, and a wildness took over her as she attacked Jon.

She moved quickly and pushed forward, dodging his swings but making her's hit. Arya's face was the scorn of anger as she struck her brother with the flat of her sword again and again. Each one came with a short yelp of pain and surprise from Jon.

“Stop. Holding. Back!” She made each word a duet with her strikes.

Jon forced himself to hit his sister or risk a wall pressed against his back. As she swung into his right leg, he caught her sword with his and backhanded her across her face. Arya spun around with the slap and re-assumed her Water Dancer stance. Jon looked at his sister in horror of what he did, but as blood trickled down from Arya's lower lip, she smirked.

“That’s more like it,” she said with an eerie joy.

Jon relaxed, smiled in return and strode forward to attack, Arya met him, and they matched strike for strike again. Jaime noticed Arya’s footwork, she matched her opponent as they circled each other and their swords met. Even as she twirled and dodged, her footwork was always precise. _This is bloody great,_ Jaime thought with a broad grin on his face, but as he took his eyes upward, he noticed something he could not believe.

Arya had her eyes closed tight shut. Yet she still matched Jon strikes and footwork and stood her ground.

“What in the seven hells?” Jaime asked no one in disbelief.

“What is it?” Tyrion questioned, perplexed.

“Look at her. Her eyes are bloody closed.”

Tyrion’s own eyes widened as he realised, Jaime noticed Daenerys was still agape, but she wore a look of concern and disbelief. Sansa’s smirk widened. 

Jaime returned to the battle, Arya spun around low to attack Jon’s left leg, but Jon met her sword with his and with practised skill, he quickly pushed her sword away then swung his back down with a heavy arc into hers, in an attempt to disarm Arya. The effort was successful, but Jaime saw that had Arya let go of her sword on purpose, just before Jon's own made contact. The force of Jon’s swing without meeting resistance, caused him to stumble slightly, Arya took this advantage. In one quick, almost imperceptible movement, she jumped the side, kicked out Jon’s ankle, causing him to collapse on one knee. Then shrieked as she launched a fist directly into Jon's face causing him to fall onto his back.

Arya put a foot onto Jon’s fallen sword and looked at him as blood started coming from his nose. “You drew blood on me, I drew blood on you,” she said and gave Jon her hand.

He smiled at her as he took her hand and rose to his feet. Jaime was awash in awe at the fight he had just witnessed. As Jon found his footing, Jaime saw Arya look towards her sister, Jaime glanced to Sansa. Her smile had disappeared, and her face was blank, he looked back to Arya, and he could have sworn he saw her subtly shake her head at Sansa.  _What is this?_  He thought. However, he could not dwell on it any further as Arya and Jon had moved to a corner, talking together. Sansa’s eyes glared at Daenerys as her and her entourage began to leave the yard, Sansa moved to go as well.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said plainly, as she started off.

“Lady Sansa,” Jaime said. She turned to face him. “I wanted to thank you for pardoning me in the hall. I owe you.”

She raised her chin high, she stood taller than him, taller than most men and had an allure and intimidation to match.“Fight for us. Defend this castle as you pledged you would. Prove you are the man of honour Lady Brienne says you are and you will owe me nothing.”

Jaime nodded, and Lady Stark spun on her heel and left.

* * *

“Lady Arya,” Jaime exclaimed.

She stopped dead in her tracks at the threshold of the training yard. Jaime had hoped to speak to her before she disappeared as she often did. Thankfully Jon was walking with her, slowing her down.

“Just Arya, Kingslayer,” she said, turning to face him.

“Just Jaime,” he replied indignantly.

“What do you want?” 

Jaime looked to Jon, then back to Arya. “I Just wanted to talk about your skills with a sword,” he said.

“What about them?”

 _This girl,_  he cursed. “I haven’t seen such skill since Barristan The Bold.”

“Truly?” Jon Snow said, eagerly.

“Truly. I served him. Barristan was a painter with a sword. Your sister was likely born with a natural affinity to it. Just as Barristan and many other great swordsmen were.”

Jon looked at Arya with pride, but her face betrayed no emotion. She was as a stone until she smiled slightly at Jaime. “Thank you,” she said.

“But no matter natural talent, you are only as good as your training.” Jaime continued. “Where did you train?” _Come on, Lady Arya. I will get the truth of it. Faceless Man or not._

The small Stark didn’t respond. Instead, she looked at Jaime intently and cocked her head, as if studying him, Jaime began to feel uncomfortable.

“Do you still love Cersei?” she blurted.

“Arya!” Jon rebuked, but her face remained emotionless, she did not react to her brother's reprimand.

Jaime’s heart began to race as he tried to push the thoughts of his sister out of his mind; he looked to Arya as she continued to stare at him.

“You do,” she finally said. And she spun on her feet and began to walk away.

Jaime was taken aback by the truth in her words: _how did she..._ He looked to Jon, the bastard had confused expression on his face but nodded to Ser Jaime a goodbye. Jon Snow turned to follow his sister, but Arya Stark had already disappeared.


	3. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya battles her demons, a Lannister pays her a visit and a Queen tries to test her.

Sunset lit the evening sky with an orange hue as Arya walked the western battlements of her home. She stopped and looked to the west towards the Wolfswood, beyond that forest and the snow and the Sunset Sea, she thought that there might be a land ripe for adventure. With animals that may be bigger or wilder than dragons, or people with different coloured hair or skin, or different, stranger, Gods. Or perhaps, Arya wondered, entire civilisations with wondrous buildings that went up to the clouds or deep underground. She smiled at the possibilities.

“What’s west of Westeros?” She recalled what she had said to Lady Crane, back in Braavos.

“The edge of the world, maybe.” Lady Crane had said, Arya smiled again at the thought of her old friend. _She was a decent woman_ , she thought. _She did not deserve to die, not so soon, not like that_.

An image flashed through her mind's eye of Lady Crane in a pool of her blood, her body deformed, as she lay dead over a stool. Arya’s heart began to beat faster, and her body shook as more images of the dead came to her, the stable boy she killed when she was twelve. The first man she stabbed to death. All the dead through the war-torn Riverlands she saw with the Hound. Meryn Trant — as she gored his eyes out with an oyster knife. Stabbing him in the chest, again and again, and again, and again. Slowly slicing his throat open while she covered in his blood. She was only fifteen when she slaughtered him.

The Frey’s came to her head, the Frey sons; Black Walder and Lothar. The sounds their bones made as she carved them, the blood as it spurted onto her face as she cut through their skin and the bubbling pot, as she threw their body parts in to make her Frey pie. She had an image flash to her of Walder Frey eating his sons, and then the blood-curdling sound of him choking as Arya slit his throat open. Carving his face, curing it and making her potion to take Walder Frey’s visage and the glamour magic she used to do what the potion couldn’t. Arya remembered practising his posture, his mannerisms and his speech patterns. She remembered organising his entire house and all who took part in the Red Wedding for a feast, and she remembered watching them, at the feast, choke on the wine Arya had poisoned with a heavily concentrated dose of the Long Farewell. One of many poisons and potions the Faceless Men taught her to make.

She recalled their screams and their chokes of blood and how much joy she took in it. She remembered all the blood of the many, many people she has now killed. One by one, their faces came before here, taunting her. Her stomach began to turn, and she started breathing rapidly, darkness in her mind clouded her. She felt helpless. She placed her hands on the stone in front of her and tried to focus. But as she tried, her brother came to her. Robb flashed before her, his lifeless body tied to a horse, masqueraded around with his direwolf’s head sewn to the headless corpse of the once, King in the North. Then her father, as he knelt by the Statue of Baelor, awaiting execution for false charges. She tried to go to him, to save him. But she could not. The sound came to her, of his sword _Ice_ as it cut through his neck and the flight of the birds as she looked up into the sky and watched them fly.

“Just breathe,” Sansa's words came to her. _“_ This has happened to me before. When it happens again, slow your breathing and take your thoughts elsewhere. Think of the warmth of a fire or the cold air on your face as the winds of winter blow. Pay attention to your hands, how they feel. Or the feel of the fabric on your skin or Needle in your hand.”

Arya closed her eyes and grasped Needle at her waist and held it tight. She thought back years ago to when Jon had given it to her. She remembered the weight of it in her small hands and the smile on Jon Snow’s face, the smile of her brother and her best friend. She breathed in deep and slow. She pictured his smile again when they reunited in the Godswood, and the long hugged they had both shared. She exhaled as she thought of sailing on a ship just as she sailed to Essos, but this time going west, discovering new lands and a new adventure. She imagined the people and the stories they had. The cold winds blew on her face as her she felt her heart settle. Her body still shook slightly, but she knew it wouldn’t go away so soon. She continued to try and focus her mind on other things when someone else did that for her.

“Lady Arya," the golden-haired dwarf waddled towards her on the battlements, covered in a thick dark cloak with a snug breastplate over it, he carried a wineskin in his hands. Arya did not reply, only let out a breath. Still reeling from the battle in her mind, she did her best to change her face, back to the wooden facade she had to wear so much now. She turned to face him.

“I know, I know.” the small man said, taking a spot next to her. “I have heard you don’t like being called a lady. But no matter how much you deny it, your birth and your name come with that title. In fact, when your brothers were each Kings in the North, you were a princess, even though Jon is only your half brother.”

“A Warrior Princess,” he added with a smile.

Arya frowned in frustration. “Have you come to talk to me of titles, my lord?”

“No, no. We haven’t talked much. At all, really. I’d like to remedy that.”

“I am afraid I’m not good at conversation, Lord Tyrion,” Arya admitted, turning her gaze back to the west.

“Don’t worry. I make enough conversation for both of us.” As if aware of her recent struggle with her mind, the dwarf offered her his wineskin.

“What’s in it?” She said as she reached for the skin.

“Sour Andalosi wine. We had a store of it in Meereen, and this is the last of it we brought over from Essos.”

“Never had it,” Arya admitted.

“Taste like horse piss,” Tyrion said, looking out into the sunset.

“You know what horse piss tastes like?” Arya jested, removing the cap from the skin and taking a drink.

Tyrion laughed. The wine _was_ sour, but came with a strong flavour that Arya enjoyed, she could taste the fermented foreign fruits on her tongue, but then a foul aftertaste took over, and she coughed as it hit her. She placed the cap back on and returned it to Tyrion.

“Horse piss,” she agreed, Tyrion threw her a smile and took the wineskin.

“There is a reason we left it till last,” he said, taking a drink. “My lady, I am curious, after what happened to your...” he stopped short. “After what happened in King’s Landing,” he corrected. “You fell off the face of the world, and everyone assumed you were dead. Then you show up all these years later, a master swordsman that can fight blind. You must have an interesting story.”

“What of it?” Arya said plainly.

“Well,” Tyrion replied. “Bran has told me his story, Sansa and Jon theirs. Now I would like to hear yours. The Stark children are exceedingly interesting.”

Arya’s face tightened, Tyrion Lannister was Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen. A woman, both Arya and Sansa did not trust. Yet Sansa spoke highly of Tyrion and trusted him. Arya’s mind raced, wondering whether Tyrion was trying to find something out for his queen of if he was just genuinely interested in Arya’s story. She decided to take faith in her sister and trust the Lannister.

“I travelled with the Night’s Watch intending on returning to Winterfell, but Lannister soldiers attacked us, they captured me, Gendry and a few others and sent us to Harrenhal, I became a cup-bearer there.”

“Oh, a cup-bearer?” Tyrion said with delight in his voice, no doubt happy to finally hear Arya’s story. “To which Lord?” He asked.

“Lord Tywin Lannister, of Casterly Rock, “ Arya said.

Tyrion Lannister choked on the wine and coughed heavily. “What?” He exclaimed, finally recovering. “You were cup-bearer to _my father_?”

Arya smiled at the dwarf's surprise. “He went to Harrenhal, to retreat from the Young Wolf. He saw me, and I guess he liked me.”

“He didn’t know it was you, I am assuming,” Tyrion said, as he wiped the spilt wine from his chin.

“No,” Arya admitted, “I had my hair cut short, and I dressed like a boy.”

“Smart,” Tyrion remarked.

“That’s what your father said.”

“Mmm,” his mouth made a noise without moving. “I would have loved to see the look on my father's face when he realised he had Arya Stark as his cup-bearer and didn’t know. Fooled by a child.”

“I respected him,” Arya suddenly commented. “But he was the enemy of my family. I wish I had killed him.”

“Well that was my dirty job,” Tyrion said. “And you were just a child.”

“I was twelve when I first killed someone,” Arya replied curtly. Tyrion looked up to her with a concerned frown but chose not to push. Instead, he passed his wineskin back to her, Arya took it without hesitation and swallowed a deep drink of the sour Andalosi wine.

“How did you escape Harrenhal?” he asked as Arya passed back the skin.

“I had help.”

“Help from whom?” He pressed.

“He was No One.”

Tyrion's eyebrows raised. “There is more to this than you're letting on,” he ventured to the Stark girl. But Arya said nothing in reply. “So you escaped Harrenhal with help from this mysterious person. Then crossed paths with the Hound?”

Arya shook her head. “The Brotherhood Without Banners found us. We travelled with them for a while. Then I escaped, and the Hound captured me.”

“Ahh, I am sure travelling with him was pleasant,” Tyrion said, sarcastically.

“It wasn’t,” Arya said, ignoring the sarcasm. “But if it weren’t for him, I probably would have died.”

Tyrion nodded, understanding what she meant. “So, you travelled a war-torn Westeros, did Clegane take you to see any sights?”

“The Twins.”

Tyrion paused for a moment, and then he realised what she was saying. “You were at the Twins when it happened? You saw what they did?”

“Yes,” she half spoke, half-whispered.

Sadness came over his face, a sadness Arya saw, that was genuine. “My lady, I am sorry.”

Tyrion passed her his wine again, and she drank as the two stood in silence, looking out to the sunset, watching it escape behind the trees of the Wolfswood. Tyrion finally broke the silence. It seemed, to Arya, that he was intent on hearing all her story. Soon enough, she would have to end this.

“You travelled with Clegane, until you crossed paths with Brienne of Tarth,” Tyrion ventured again. “Neither of them wanted to give you up, so they took to battle, and she beat the Hound in single combat.”

Arya nodded slightly.

“Then what happened? Where did you go, what did you do?” Tyrion pressed.

Arya grasped tightly onto the wineskin in her hands, raised it and slammed it into the dwarf's chest, taking the wind out of him.

“Then, Lord Tyrion. I told the Imp not to push his luck,” she said with ire in her voice.

The little Lannister only smiled at that. “And it was just getting interesting. Allow me to finish the story for you then,” he said, recovering himself from Arya’s hit. Arya did not say anything to deny him. If she was honest with herself, she was interested in hearing what sort of ridiculous story the Imp could concoct.

Tyrion cleared his throat and began his tale. “So, Brienne defeated the Hound, and you left him to die. _Somehow_ you managed to get to a dock, and you _somehow_ paid for a ship over to Essos.”

Arya’s eyes widened slightly at what she was hearing.

“Braavos in fact,” he continued. “Then you _somehow_ joined the Faceless Men and trained under them. No doubt killing more people even though you were still just a child.”

 _Who has told him? Sansa?_ Arya thought. _No, she wouldn’t, not unless there was some benefit for our family in telling him. And there is none. Sansa said he was smart. He must have figured things out some other way._

“Eventually, you became one of them. Learning everything they could teach you and having such mastery of fighting that allows you, now a young woman, to come to draws in fights against some of the greatest and most experienced warriors in Westeros, such as Brienne of Tarth and Jon Snow.”

“And then,” as Tyrion spoke these words he turned his whole body to face Arya, she turned her gaze to his, betraying no emotion.

“You returned to Westeros and headed for the Twins where you killed Walder Frey and his entire house. Before returning home to help your sister to scheme and kill one of the best schemers Westeros had known.”

Arya stared at his scarred face, hoping to spot a muscle or expression that showed signs of a joke or lie. But there was nothing, Tyrion believed everything he had said. “Quite a story,” she said simply.

“That story, was me making sense of the stories of a Northern woman murdering the Freys and sending a message with Stark words, as well as many rumours that surround you. Rumours that you gave a lot of credence to when you fought Jon earlier.”

 _Fuck_. Arya cursed herself. She should have known better. “They are just that, rumours,” she said.

“Yes, and I am six feet tall.”

Arya did not say anything. She just looked into the green eyes of the golden-haired dwarf

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smile. “I won’t tell anyone what I have deduced. They will just stay as rumours.”

 _He knows the truth, Sansa was right, he is smart_. Arya told herself. _Nothing I say will change his mind._

“Sansa told me how you treated her well in King’s Landing,” Arya said. “And Jon told me you helped him at the Wall. He said you’re a good man and Sansa told me she trusts you. Don’t make a liar out of my brother and sister.”

“I have no intention to, I greatly respect them both, and you as well. However, I would like to know how you left the Faceless Men and came back home. I have the thought that they don’t just let their recruits leave so easily.”

“Perhaps another time, Lord Tyrion,” Arya remarked and turned to leave the dwarf.

“Arya Stark,” Tyrion called after her, “I have enjoyed this conversation much more than I thought I would, I have to admit. But I didn’t come find you just for that, I’m afraid."

“You came because your queen wants to speak to me.” She ventured.

“Yes,” Tyrion admitted.

“Why?”

“ _Our_ queen has not had a proper conversation with you. I believe she wants to remedy that and show you that she is a good, decent queen as I and all who follow her know her to be. Come, I will take you to her.”

Arya did not need to turn and read his face, to know that this was not the truth.

* * *

The snow made a crunch under their feet as Arya and Tyrion walked out to the field where the two dragons stood, as Arya came closer she saw Daenerys Targaryen standing on the wing of her black dragon. He slowly lowered her down to the ground and Daenerys stepped off of him onto the snow. It made for a powerful show. _Is she trying to intimidate me?_ Daenerys stood beside her dragon; his head was parallel to her and was much larger up close. Tyrion stepped up beside his queen and Arya approached with her hands behind her back, stopping a few feet before her.

“Lady Arya,” Daenerys said.

“Just Arya, if it please Your Grace,” Arya said, in the most pleasant version of her voice she could muster.

“Of course,” the Queen said with a smile. “Normally it is customary to kneel before your queen when greeting her.” She added with a slight authority to her voice.

Arya looked into the Dragon Queen’s eyes but did not move. When Daenerys realised Arya would not kneel, Arya saw a split second of frustration come across Daenerys’ lips.

“But that is not important right now,” she said finally. “When we were sailing to White Harbor, Jon told me much about your family, and you in particular. He said you used to enjoy the stories of the old Dragon Queens that came over with Aegon and their three dragons.”

“I did, our father used to read me stories of them; Rhaenys and Meraxes, Visenya and Vhagar.”

Daenerys smiled wide. “My ancestors. I thought that perhaps you would like to see my dragons up close.” Daenerys turned to face the green dragon. “These are my children, Rhaegal,” she rotated back to the black dragon. “And Drogon.”

Drogon looked to Arya as if greeting her and Arya took a step forward to him. But as she did this, Drogon bared his teeth and let out a slight growl. Arya took another step forward, staring right into Drogon’s eyes that had the colour of molten lava, his roar became louder, and he bared his teeth further. Arya stopped and looked at his scales — tightly formed together, overlapping each other, protecting his flesh.

“Don’t be afraid,” Daenerys said.

“I’m _not_ afraid,” Arya replied with abruptness and took another step forward.

Drogon leaned his head in, and his growl deepened in an eerie threatening sound Arya would never forget. But she was not afraid, and she was face to face with a dragon. She would not forget this, ever. She took her hand from behind her back and made to reach out to touch the dragon, but as he saw her hand approach, Drogon retreated his massive head back, turned on Arya and took flight. The snow on the ground spurred through the air as Drogon’s heavy wings stirred and Rhaegal followed.

“The only people that have ever touched Drogon as an adult has been me, and your brother,” Daenerys told it, as she watched her children sore in the air.

“Dragons are meant to be highly intelligent,” Arya said, to no one in particular.

“They are, I can get him back, and we could go for a ride if you like, he’ll allow it if I am with you.” She added, turning back to Arya.

Arya wanted to like this woman. She wanted to talk to her of her family and dragons. She wanted to ride Drogon and sore through the air like Visenya Targaryen once did, and Arya had a feeling that her and Daenerys would get along, but Sansa’s words came to her. _“She may try to come between us.”_ And Arya knew the Dragon Queen was up to something.

“Lord Tyrion said you wanted to speak to me?” She asked, ignoring Daenerys’ offer.

“Yes,” Daenerys said, her smile fading. “I had hoped you could help me understand your sister. I don’t know why she doesn’t trust me. I only wish to help your family.”

“It’s difficult for her to trust people,” Arya began. “Sansa has been through a lot.”

“As have I,” Daenerys said with authority. “And I had-”

“She didn’t have dragons.” Arya cut into Daenerys’ words. “Your Grace,” she added, remembering who it was she spoke to.

Daenerys tried to betray no emotion of anger or frustration, but Arya could see the small movements of the muscles on her face telling her otherwise. The Dragon Queen was annoyed at Arya’s audacity, and anger came to her next words. “I have done nothing but be a friend to your family, yet you and Sansa show me little respect and hardly any trust."

“The last time our family trusted someone who claimed to be our friend, we lost our father, our mother, our brother, his wife and their child.” Arya reproached.

“I am not those people that betrayed your family,” Daenerys said, frustrated. “Yet here you are admitting to not trusting me. Despite me being here to aid in your brother's war.”

"I am grateful for you, your armies and the help of your dragons. We will need them if what Jon says about the army of the dead is true. And Sansa is grateful as well, even if she doesn’t show it,” though Arya did not know if this was true or not.

“I am sure she is,” Daenerys replied with blatant disbelief. She stepped forward to Arya closing their gap and looked down at the small Stark. “One of these days, _Lady Stark_ , you had better learn to kneel to your true queen.”

Daenerys’ face was still full of scorn. _She is obsessed with that throne_ , Arya believed. She looked to Tyrion. His face was blank as it looked back at her. “I am sure I will,” Arya said plainly.

“Have you heard the rumours about me, Your Grace?” She added before Daenerys could speak. A puzzled look came over both Daenerys and Tyrion. When she did not answer, Arya stepped forward to her.

“Do you want to know how I killed the Freys?” Arya said, her tone changed to that of the systematic No One. Daenerys' face went into a perplexed look as she stared at Arya. “I carved Walder Frey's sons and fed them to him. Then I slit Walder's throat and used his face to lure and poisoned every single member of his house that had anything to do with the Red Wedding.”

Her face was visceral. Horror overcame Daenerys and disbelief on Tyrion. “The Faceless Men taught me that. Do you want to know what else they taught me? Death does not only come for the wicked and leave the decent behind,” she said with an iciness to her voice that could chill a fire.

Tyrion’s face became one of comprehension as he realised what Arya was saying. Yet, Daenerys took an image of subtle fury, as she composed herself from what Arya had just said. “Are you threatening me, Arya?”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Arya lied. She stole a glance to Tyrion. “If I have offended you, I apologise.” Arya’s words were a lie, but she knew her face did not betray her. “I am not very good at conversation. Especially with queens.”

The silver-haired queen calmed, but she still stared at the Stark. “I have two dragons and two armies with thousands of men loyal to me. And your brothers love. Remember that, Arya Stark.”

Arya smiled and nodded her head slightly. “If that’s all Your Grace,” Arya said.

Daenerys took an exhale of breath and nodded her approval to her, Arya bowed to the Queen, spun on her heels and made to leave the two with their thoughts.

* * *

She placed Needle, and it’s scabbard on her desk. _Won’t be needing you tonight_. Jon Snow had been Needle and had been protecting her as she travelled Westeros, and saved her when it helped Arya defeat the Waif in Braavos. But tonight, if what Jon said about the dead was true, then Needle would be useless against them. And if she was unfortunate enough to come face to face with a white walker, Jon said regular steel would shatter against them. It had to be Valyrian steel or Dragonglass. So all Arya would carry tonight when the dead came over the walls, was a Dragonglass weapon and her Valyrian dagger, _Catspaw_ , they had named it. _And that was enough_ , she told herself.

She put out the fire in her solar and felt the grumble of hunger in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since before she spoke to Sansa at noon. She decided she would go outside to the feast and grab something to sate her hunger, hoping that she would not run into Tyrion or Queen Daenerys after the conversation she had only just come from. She exited her chambers, locked the door and proceeded through her home.

Night had well fallen on Winterfell, clouds marked the sky with stars peering through the gaps, as commoners and soldiers flooded into the courtyards for Sansa’s feast. As Arya walked through them and past people already eating, she heard people talk of their families, their children, their fathers and mothers, even their pets. She heard men speak of the Battle of the Bastards, how Jon Snow faced down a cavalry charge alone and how Sansa Stark led an army of knights to break the Bolton army and save Jon and his men. She walked past Night’s Watchmen, who talked to Northmen about how Jon defeated a white walker at Hardhome. Arya smiled at the stories of her brother and sister. _These people believe in them, their leaders. They would follow Sansa and Jon anywhere_. She thought with pride.

As she continued walking, she saw Sansa talking to a common woman, and her child, next to her stood Theon Greyjoy. Sansa spotted Arya approaching, finished her conversation and smiled at her sister. But Arya focused her attention on Theon.

The once ward of her father finally noticed her and gave a timid bow to her presence.

“If things were different,” Arya began to speak to Theon. “I would have killed you ten times over for what you did to my family and my home,” she had venom in her voice.

She noticed Sansa's lips tighten before opening to speak. But Arya cut in first.

“I will never forgive you for what you did,” she said. “But Jon did, and you saved Sansa.”

Arya made the tone of her voice lighten, and she relaxed her muscles.

“I wouldn’t have a sister if it weren’t for you.”

She outstretched her hand to Theon, he looked at it confused, glanced at Sansa then back to Arya’s hand. He put his hand out and took her's, and they shook.

“Show them what a Kraken raised by Wolves can do,” Arya said with pride to Theon.

“I will,” he replied with a smile, “thank you, Arya.”

Their hands parted, and Arya looked to her sister. Sansa was beaming.

“We were just going to have something to eat, join us.” She said.

“No, thank you,” Arya replied. “Nymeria saw a dragon.”

Theon gave a confused look, but at those words, Sansa’s face turned to stone, and she nodded in understanding.

"And did she like what she saw?" Sansa asked, still stone-faced.

Arya shook her head, “No.”

“Good,” Sansa said, relaxing, but at this, a northern man walked over to them with a woman beside him.

“Lady Sansa!” He bellowed. “Arya,” he bowed slightly to her. Arya nodded her head in greeting.

“Lord Magnar,” Sansa said and greeted him and the woman that appeared to be his wife.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Arya slipped passed the two and made her way to the stew pots and bread bowls. She picked the largest bread bowl she could see and filled it high with rabbit stew from the pot. The smell of the cooked meat and vegetables with spices made her stomach rumble again, and she became eager to eat. She poured herself a cup of ale, making sure it was not the overly sweet mead they had out as well.

She retreated to a corner of the castle where few people went, a spot she knew of from when she was just a little girl, and sat on the ground, put her back on the stone wall and began to eat. The vegetables in the stew were soft, and the bread bowl was hard to bite, but it was food all the same, and she knew she needed sustenance. She scoffed down the food ad as she finally finished her meal, she washed it down with the last of her ale, wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and sat back, thinking, to her surprise, of Gendry.

She wondered what the blacksmith boy was doing, where he was. _Wherever he is, he had best be working on my bloody staff_. Arya thought, and an image of Gendry making her Dragonglass staff came to her, she pictured him in his forged, the muscles in his arms twitching and glistening with sweat as his hammer met the anvil. With these thoughts on her mind, her heart began to quicken, but this was a different feeling to what she had earlier when she was up on the battlements. No, this was the same feeling she had when she saw Gendry working in Winterfell's forges. The same fluttery effect she felt in her stomach when she saw him working the anvil and when he slammed that Dragonglass axe into the wood. She let out a deep breathe when she played that through her mind again, then caught herself.

Arya shook her head, trying to get Gendry out of it. She tried to think of the staff she would be using to fight the dead, the same type of weapon she trained within Braavos, amongst others. She tried to think of the feeling of it in her hands and how she would wield it. But she found her mind traced off and starting thinking of Gendry again, how his arms would feel in her hands and she came to a realisation and a truth to her thoughts.

As much as Arya wanted her Dragonglass staff, a great new weapon — she wanted Gendry, as much, if not more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First notes. So this chapter for Arya, particularly at the beginning, has her dealing with a bit of anxiety and PTSD from everything she has witnessed and done. I remember in an interview with Maisie Williams (who played Arya in the TV show) that she said Arya was a little girl committing these terrible things and that is probably going to effect mentally later on. And that kind of stuck with me, especially as someone who has dealt with mental health myself and with my family due to trauma and such.
> 
> I also assumed Sansa would have similar issues given what she has been through and this was something the sisters could bond over and grow stronger together through battling. Because no matter how much of a strong person, stoic person you portray yourself on the outside, such as Sansa and Arya do. Fighting your demons in your mind can take its toll, especially if you ignore it and don't be kind to your mind, like I am assuming Arya would not have been doing in my story.


	4. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Long Night has been won, but the losses great. Jon deals with the outset and spends some much needed time with Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long ass chapter, please read the end notes that explain some changes I made to what was in the show that I am sure people will question.

He glared at the collapsed body of the once undead dragon, it no longer spewed blue fire from its mouth, but it lay, apparently dead, in front of Jon Snow. He turned around and faced the destruction. Bodies littered the courtyard amongst the destroyed walls and buildings of Winterfell. As Jon walked through the corpses and debris, he heard the roar of Drogon as he flew overhead, his roar was one of victory and pain. Jon sheathed Longclaw, and then he saw her, standing under the half-destroyed arch at the threshold of the courtyard. Blood covered her thick white robes, and blood covered her hands. He strode to her, and they embraced. Daenerys’ eyes welled with tears as Jon held her tight.

Jon pulled back and grabbed her hands while looking over her, trying to find a cut or wound to explain the blood. But Dany looked at him with immense sadness and shook her head. Jon eyed his queen, somehow already knowing what she was about to say.

“Jorah,” she whispered, her throat filled with pain that Jon could hear, knowing that her dearest friend had died.

“Dany, I am so sorry.”

She fell into his chest, her arms pressed against him as he wrapped his around her back and held her tighter and closed his eyes. They stood there, together in the quiet of the courtyard, for several moments, before Jon heard the rustle of footsteps of people approaching. He saw Tormund, cut and bloodied, but standing. Gendry besides him with his war hammer, exhausted. Grey Worm, Ser Brienne, Ser Jaime and Podrick all followed beaten and bloodied but alive. From behind them all, stood Samwell Tarly, red-eyed from tears and his body still shaking from what he had been through.

“Sam?” Jon breathed in disbelief.

At this, Jon and Dany broke their embrace and looked to Sam, Jon strode over to his friend and hugged him tight and laughed with joy. But Samwell had despair in his face, and Jon fell concerned.

“What happened,” he asked.

Sam began to cry, tears filled his eyes, and his voice cracked when he attempted to speak.

“E-Edd,” his words finally broke through his tears.

Jon stepped back in shock, Edd Tollett had been one of his closest friends in the Night’s Watch one of the last of his group, he was there for Jon, beyond the Wall, again at Hardhome. Even when Jon lay dead in Castle Black, Edd brought the Free Folk for him. Now he was gone. Jon’s heart dipped at the loss of his friend.

“I’m sorry Snow,” Tormund said, clasping his big hands and Jon’s shoulders, Jon hugged the man like a brother and thanked him, he thanked them all, Gendry, Grey Worm, Ser Brienne, Podrick, even Ser Jaime. They did not say anything in response, they didn’t need to.

The old door to Winterfell's crypts started to open, shoving debris and bodies as those behind it pushed against the weight. Finally Tyrion Lannister, Lord Varys and Missandei appeared beyond it, exhausted after the effort. Then leading women and children out, came Sansa, her hair disordered, her face, her hands and her armoured breastplate wore smears of blood and dirt. She carried a Dragonglass dagger with her, it too was covered in blood from tip to hilt.

Jon and Daenerys strode forward to the group, as Dany went to Missandei, Jon went straight towards Sansa who smiled at him as water welled in her eyes. Jon grabbed her and hugged her tightly, Sansa’s arms went around Jon’s neck. In the coldness of the night, Sansa was warm and Jon felt a swell of happiness knowing she was still amongst the living.

He broke off the embrace and looked over her.

“You bleeding?”

“No,” Sansa replied in between tears, “not my blood… They.. they came from the tombs and attacked us. I had to kill some, I had to fight. But I was scared,” more tears fell from her eyes. “I was so scared, Jon.”

“It’s okay,” Jon said soothingly, holding her shoulders, “you’re alive, we’re alive.”

“Yes we are,” Tyrion said, “Thanks to you Sansa. She had to get into the thick of it and she saved a lot of lives tonight Jon.”

Jon smiled proudly at Sansa, though tears and fear still filled her eyes. He looked to Tyrion properly for the first time, the dwarfs clothing was dirty and torn and his hands to had blood to, likely from the undead.

“Looks like you had to get into the thick of it as well, my lord,” Jon said.

“Yes, well. I did what I could,” Tyrion replied. “Though if I am honest, with my short arms and Sansa’s reach, it was a bit hard to keep up with her.”

Jon smiled wide at him and outstretched his hand, “I’m glad you’re alive Tyrion.”

“So am I,” Tyrion took his hand and the two friends shook. “Never have been a big fan of death,” Tyrion joked and Jon laughed.

“Where did you get the dagger from?” Jon asked Sansa, looking at the Dragonglass blade.

“Arya gave it to me.”

 _Arya_ , how could he forget her? In all this commotion, he did not wonder about his sister? He looked around, hoping that he missed her. But she was not there, and dread began to fill his heart.

“Have you seen her?” He asked desperately.

Sansa shook her head and dread came to her face at the thought of her sister lying somewhere forgotten. Jon turned to the others.

“Have you seen Arya?” his voice croaked with despair, and he shot his eyes around the group, hoping someone knew.

“In the Godswood, besides Brandon,” a melancholy but powerful voice spoke.

She walked through the crowd in her red robes and stood in front of Jon and Sansa, Ser Davos trailed behind her, his hand ready to draw his sword.

“Your sister,” Melisandre began speaking to Jon, “did what no other could. Her path led her here, to this moment.”

“What are you saying?” Dany asked The Red Woman. But when she did not answer, Jon grabbed her by her arm with force.

“You helped us tonight, but I swear if you hurt Arya-”

“I did no such thing. I guided her to a part of her destiny, a destiny she and you share. And she needs you now, my King,”

 _My King_ , those words made Jon swallow deeply as they echoed in his head, Melisandre’s eyes stared into his with fire, piercing his mind and he could feel the glare of Dany’s eyes at the both of them.

“Jon is no longer King in the North,” Tyrion said, trying to break the silence.

Melisandre looked down to the man. “Oh, I know, my Lord of Lannister.”

Her eyes shot back to Jon. Next they moved to Sansa. She stared deep into Sansa’s eyes as she had done to Jon and stepped directly in front of her. The two red-haired women stood as tall and imposing as the other, Sansa did not back down when Melisandre eyed her over, but she betrayed no look of trust to the Lord of Lights priestess.

“Sansa Stark,” Melisandre began, but her voice became confident and sung with power.

“I saw your sister in the fires before I returned to this place, shutting ice blue eyes forever,” She stepped forward, now face to face with Sansa.

“And I saw a red wolf, with iron on its skull, a widow by its side and wolf cubs at its feet. I saw it ride upon a weirwood wolf with a trout, a falcon and a stag in its paws.”

Sansa’s face became a frown of uncertainty at The Red Woman’s words. Melisandre took her hand and grabbed Sansa’s chin, their eyes staring deep into each other.

“Arya Stark has prophecy to her, as does Jon Snow, as does Brandon Stark. As do you.”

At that, Melisandre took her hand off Sansa, turned and walked out through the crowd, as she disappeared through the debris, Ser Davos followed her.

Eyes of those still around them shifted to Sansa, who was still trying to digest the words that Melisandre spoke to her. The words of a prophecy.

 _Prophecy? “She needs you now,”_ Melisandre’s words of Arya echoed to Jon. He broke off from the crowd suddenly and marched his way to the Godswood, as he walked he could sense the presence of people behind him, following his path.

Walking into the Godswood, they saw the efforts of Theon and the Iron Islanders, dozens of bodies of wights lay about in the snow, arrows, spears and blade cuts had pierced them. As they approached the weirwood tree, Jon noticed the body of Lady Alys Karstark, several dead wights lay about her, with deep cuts that no doubt came from Alys. He raised his gaze from the dead Karstark and saw her, standing next to their little brother, under the red leaves of the weirwood tree. She stood with her back straight and her head high. She was still hyper-aware, a posture and attitude Jon noticed she constantly took nowadays. Mud and blood covered her leather jerkin and her face, her hair was a tangled mess with dried blood and dirt and snow throughout, she held her Valyrian dagger in her right hand, and she breathed deeply from exhaustion. Shards of shattered ice of a White Walker, or worse, lay about her feet. The others that followed Jon came up behind, as they each saw what he did. Bran looked from her to Jon and his lips formed into a small smile. Then she turned her head to face Jon. “She did what no other could.” _Did she kill the Night King? Did she save us?_

“Arya,” Jon said to her breathlessly.

"Jon," she replied weakly.

She gazed at her big brother, her hyper-awareness dropped, and a tear fell down her cheek. Jon looked upon her, as her face changed and she became his little sister. He ran forward and collapsed on his knees in front of her, and they embraced. They held the hug tight to each other, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders and neck, but he did not care, he could feel the welling of tears, and he let them flow out from his eyes down his cheek. He became overwhelmed with emotion, knowing that Arya had lived, his fear of her death abated. Instead, he felt happy, and as he held her tightly in his arms, he could hear Arya begin to sob into his neck.

He could hear her whisper, “Jon… Jon,” in-between her sobs, her grip tightened, he could feel all the emotion and struggle she faced in the Long Night that she had just ended, coming out in her hug, and Jon welcomed it all.

They held onto each other for what seemed like an eternity until Sansa came up beside them. They broke their embrace, and Arya turned to her sister and they too hugged. Jon could remember a time when the two of them could not stand each other’s presence, let alone share a hug. He remembers Arya throwing food at Sansa, or Sansa picking on Arya. Now he saw them embracing each other and his heart filled with joy.

Jon looked to Bran who remained in his chair, still wearing the subtle smile. Jon started to lift himself off his knees to hug him, but as Arya and Sansa parted, Jon noticed a wound on Arya’s forehead, the injury was deep and was responsible for the blood over half her face. He retreated to his knees and cupped her head in his hands.

“Are you okay, what happened?” He said, looking into the deep cut.

“I’m fine,” Arya brushed it off, as she did.

“She saved us all,” Bran broke in, and all eyes fell on him. "She defeated the Night King."

Jon knew it before Bran even said it. He cast his eyes back to Arya, and she smiled at him.

“How?” was all he asked.

“I stuck ‘em with the pointy end,” she answered, raising her Valryian dagger, smiling.

Jon broke into laughter, the last thing he remembers thinking before he died at Castle Black, was Arya and telling her to “stick ‘em with the pointy end.” Way back when she was a little girl. Now she was here, a woman grown. With them after the end of the world, telling Jon she stuck ‘em with the pointy end, to save them all. It only made him love her more, he drew her head forward and kissed her forehead, he held his head against hers and kept it there as they looked at each other and smiled.

The crunch of snow betrayed Dany’s approach to them. Arya parted from Jon and looked up at The Queen.

“Arya,” Daenerys began, in a weak voice. “You saved us, you saved the world. We owe you a debt that can never be repaid. But if there's ever anything I can do for you, name it.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” Arya said with obvious grief in her voice

“No, but _you_ did it,” Dany added. “Though, how did your dagger manage to kill the Night King? Drogon burnt him with dragonfire and it did nothing.” _Yes_ , Jon thought. _The Night King walk out of the dragonfire unscathed_. But if the stories about Valyrian steel being forged from dragonfire are true. Then how could Valyrian steel kill the Night King when dragonfire could not?

All eyes once again fell to Bran for answers. He remained quiet for a moment before casting his eyes to Arya and her dagger. “Catspaw,” he said finally, “that is the name we have given Arya’s dagger. But it had a name before that. The name of a three-hundred-year-old weapon. Dark Sister.”

“What?” Arya and Jon said in unison. “Dark Sister was a Valyrian steel _longsword_ , ” Arya corrected Bran.

“That’s what the histories say, but the histories were wrong,” Bran continued. “When Visenya Targaryen came to Westeros she had forged two Valyrian weapons, a longsword and a dagger. The histories incorrectly state that Dark Sister was her longsword when it was actually her dagger. The same dagger that Arya now wields, the same dagger Visyena herself preferred to use.” Arya lifted the dagger to examine it, Jon noticed the chill of ice present on the ripple pattern of its blade. “Visyena had Dragonglass from Dragonstone imbued into the hilt of the dagger,” Bran said in his melancholy tone. “The Night King was born from magic of the Children of the Forest, and a shard of Dragonglass they implanted into his heart. Dragon forged Valyrian steel imbued with Dragonglass, created powerful magic.”

Bran paused a moment, looking around at the people in front of him, his eyes ended at Arya. “Visenya Targaryen had created the only weapon in existence that could kill the Night King without even knowing it. And over the years the dagger eventually fell into the hands of the only person in existence that could wield the dagger effectively and get close enough to the Night King to destroy him.” Bran finished, not taking his eyes off Arya the whole time.

“Arya Stark has a prophecy to her,” Melisandre’s words again found their way to Jon’s mind.

As if feeling all the pairs of eyes falling on her, Arya sheathed Dark Sister and immediately changed the subject. “We’ve survived, but we have a lot of work to do,” she said, turning her gaze to their home and all the dead.

“Aye,” Jon smiled, resting his hand on her shoulder. He felt immense pride for Arya, an image of her as a child came to his mind. She was in her room, packing her things ready to leave for King’s Landing, her direwolf Nymeria helping her pack. He remembered the way Arya told Jon to shut up as he teased her, he remembered giving her the sword he had made for her and the wide grin she had on her face when she wielded it. And he remembered her jumping into his arms to hug him goodbye and the name she had given that sword — Needle. She was no longer that little girl, she had fought in a war and defeated a being that even Jon wasn’t sure he could fight. She had proved herself a warrior and a hero.

“Theon,” Sansa suddenly said, cutting off Jon’s thoughts. Her eyes stared at Bran, he stared back but slowly turned his attention to behind Sansa, down the path was a single body lay alone.

“He fought well,” Bran said, simply. “Like a Kraken raised by wolves,” he added.

Arya glared at Bran.

“No,” Sansa gasped, upon seeing the body. “No, no.” She stood up quickly and rushed to the corpse. In her sudden, quick movement, her torn cloak fell from her shoulders, but she made no move to grab it. She ignored the cold and continued down her path, to which Jon and Arya followed.

Jon walked up behind as Sansa fell on her knees and heaved the body up onto her lap. She held his head in her hand, his eyes still open wide and blood trickled down from his mouth. Jon saw a broken wooden spear shaft pierced through his stomach, done with such force that allowed wood to pierce steel armour. _Must have been the work of the Night King, before Arya got to him._ Jon thought to himself.

He heard Sansa trying to speak in between her bouts of tears. “No, Theon… wake up, please… Please… no, no” Her tears fell onto the Greyjoy’s face, though Theon remained lifeless.

Jon placed his hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “We won’t forget what he did, ever. He died protecting our home,” Jon tried to console her.

“His home too,” Sansa wept shaking her head. “I never got to say goodbye to him. I never…” Her voice broke and shuttered as she tried to form the words. “Never told him… That I saw him as a Stark… as our brother.”Her hands shook as she cupped Theon's head, and Jon could feel her body shake as more tears fell down her cheek.

Arya came up beside her and place her hand on Sansa’s shoulder. She knelt down, leaned over, and shut Theon’s eyelids with her fingers. “He was strong,” Arya began, looking at his motionless body. “Despite everything he had been through, he remained strong. He never gave up, even when he was surrounded. He fought to the last to protect Bran, to protect us.” Arya turned her attention to Sansa, grabbed her head and made them face each other. “He had courage like a wolf, like a Stark. And he would want you to have courage, to be strong in his memory. He knew the North, and it’s people need your leadership and your strength. They have all lost a lot too.” She paused a moment, looking into Sansa’s eyes. “And they need you now Sansa, more than ever,” she said, finally.

Sansa stayed motionless for a moment looking into her sister's eyes, before finally nodding to her slightly. She placed Theon back onto the snow, and the three Starks rose to their feet together. "It was a long night,” Sansa said, still looking at Theon. “People will be exhausted and hungry and, Broken.” Jon noticed her linger on the last word.

“Yes,” Dany said, coming forward, her eyes red from tears. “We should gather the survivors, give them food and rest. They all fought well.”

“Aye,” Jon replied, “Then we should start gathering wood for pyres, the bodies of the dead as well.”

“Yes,” was all Sansa said.

The four started making their way back to the others, and as they walked, Jon noticed Davos had returned. He walked up to his adviser and gave him a great hug. “Where is she, did she leave, did you…” Jon asked of Melisandre.

Davos shook his head. “I think. I think she killed herself before I ever could.”

Jon nodded, though he was unsure why she would do that. She lived through her lord, and she returned to fight for him and to guide Arya and help win the war. Had she killed herself because she fulfilled her duty? And what of all these prophecies she spoke about before she died, of Arya, Sansa, Bran and Jon himself? He did not know, but he knew dwelling on them would bring him nothing. Instead, he cast his eyes to the others, to his surprise, he saw Arya and Gendry embracing, holding each other tightly. He saw Sansa speaking with Bran, Ser Brienne and Podrick, Sansa hugged Podrick and thanked him. Jaime Lannister talked with his brother and Varys, Dany spoke to Grey Worm and Missandei as the two held each other. And Samwell Tarly held little Sam in his hands, tears of joy fell from Samwell’s face as Gilly hugged him tightly. Sunlight broke over the trees of the Godswood and specks of light hit them, the Long Night was finally over. For good. Jon smiled, relieved. Happy. For the first time in a long time, but the feeling was fleeting. For the Great War had been won, but the Last War was still to come. And Jon was tired.

* * *

“Tell them.”

His sisters turned to face their brother in his chair. They were back in the Godswood, near the spot were Arya had ended the Long Night weeks ago. Sunlight broke through the trees and filled Jon with warmth.

“Jon’s mother was our Aunt. Lyanna Stark,” Bran said as if it were nothing.

Jon could see the reaction on Sansa and Arya’s faces. Their eyes went wide, their mouths agape. Even Arya, the embodiment of a stoic, had a look of shock on her face.

“What,” Sansa gasped so quietly it was almost impossible to hear.

“His father,” Bran continued, “was Rhaegar Targaryen. Rhaegar and Lyanna were in love. They had a secret marriage in Dorne. Then they bore Jon.”

Jon saw Arya step back from them. Her emotions were ablaze trying to comprehend what was said.

“My real name,” Jon broke in trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. “Is Aegon Targaryen. My mother died in childbirth, but before she did, she gave me to Ned Stark, to raise me and protect me.”

Arya turned to Jon, her eyebrows furrowed with the shock of what he said. “You’re a Targaryen?” Her voice was broken and weakened.

“You’re the heir,” Sansa cut in. “The rightful heir, you-”

“No! None of that,” Jon cut her off before she could add any more. “I don’t want it.”

Silence fell the Godswood as the siblings tried to wrap their minds around the reveal. Jon felt relief finally telling his sisters the truth, but pain as he watched them rack their minds over his true parentage. He looked to Sansa, she was looking at him intently, studying him. Then he cast his view to Arya, she had her head down, looking at the ground, but as if feeling his eyes on her, she raised her head.

“You’re a Stark,” she said, with confidence returning to her voice.

“Arya, I told you I-”

“You said it yourself,” she cut in. “ _Our_ father raised you as one of us. You are his son far more than some bloody Targaryen’s.”

“You’re _our_ brother,” Sansa added in concert with Arya.

Jon fell quiet and conflicted, his true nature was Targaryen, but he felt like a Stark. And Bran was his brother, Arya and Sansa his sisters. But they weren’t, not really. As if she knew what he was thinking, Arya came close to him and held his hand.

“You don’t need to justify or explain it to yourself,” she said. “You’re a Stark, you’re our brother, and that is the end of it.”

Jon held her hand tight, welcoming the warm feeling and words she gave him.

“It does explain a lot,” Sansa nonchalantly commented.

“Explain what?” Jon asked, confused.

“You and Arya.”

Jon and Arya looked at each other, now both confused.

“Father didn’t speak much of her, but don’t you remember Old Nan’s stories of Aunt Lyanna?”

“A little,” Arya responded.

“She used to say how Arya and Lyanna were spitting images of each other and how much of a great beauty Lyanna became. How Lyanna used to love swords and to fight. Old Nan said she even used to beat uncle Benjen in sparring and that she was a great horse rider. Remind you of anyone?”

Jon and Arya looked to each other, Arya wore a grin.

“Does that mean,” Jon began. “Arya is a _great beauty_?” He said the last words so sarcastically as to tease Arya. Knowing full well, that it would bother her.

“Shut up,” she said when she realised he was teasing and forcibly threw his hand back into his hip, making Jon give a small yelp in pain.

Sansa laughed at the two, before composing herself.

“I have organised for a feast tonight before everyone leaves tomorrow for King’s Landing. A final thank you to our Lord’s and Lady’s and their men.”

“Good,” Jon smiled at Sansa. “We should go back and prepare then.”

He walked behind Bran and began to push his chair as the four Starks left the Godswood together.

“Thank you for helping me tell them,” Jon said quietly to Bran. “I didn’t think I had it in me.”

Bran gave a small smile. “You have a lot more in you than you realise, brother.”

* * *

Winterfell's Great Hall filled with the noise of feasting. Lords and Ladies of the North sat at their tables eating dry bread and hard cheese with a freshly made soup. Drinking ale, or wine, or mead, while sharing their stories of the struggles of the Long Night or heroic actions they witnessed. They laughed, cheered and yelled. Jon noticed a servant girl sitting on the knee of Lord Wyman Manderly as she poured wine into his open mouth, though half of the wine seemed to miss and fall down his beard like a waterfall. Manderly looked down at his large gut, and he noticed his beard covered in wine, one of his men at his table said something that made Manderly bellow with laughter.

Jon smiled, they had sustained heavy losses, but they had survived, they have all come together and lived through the Long Night, and Arya had defeated the Night King when all hope was lost. He noticed that she was not eating at the Great Hall, this didn’t surprise him as she never came to feast with others, but he wished she would, at least once. He smiled at the thought of sharing a drink with Arya and making jokes like they did when they were younger.

“What are you smiling at?” Queen Daenerys said, she held a goblet of wine in one hand as she used a napkin to wipe food from her lips with another. She smiled at Jon as he turned to face her.

“Manderly’s beard is covered in wine,” Jon said, he knew better than to speak too much of his sisters to Dany, even the Hero of Winterfell.

Daenerys looked to Lord Manderly’s table and giggled. “It is, he is enjoying himself,” she said smiling.

“They’re Northmen,” Jon replied. “They are always enjoying themselves when wine, mead or ale is involved.”

Jon sat at the great table on the dais at the head of the Great Hall, also on the table to his left was Daenerys taking another drink from her wine, Bran on the far right of the table, was staring off into nothing and not eating as seemed to be his way since he returned to Winterfell. Grey Worm, Missandei, Varys, Tyrion and Jaime Lannister sat on a table at the left of the hall. Ser Brienne and Podrick Payne with them. At the other side of the room, Davos Seaworth sat with Lord Gendry Baratheon, Bronze Yon Royce, Samwell Tarly, Gilly and their baby. Sansa sat to Jon’s immediate right on the high table, enjoying a conversation with Tormund Giantsbane who had come up to the dais from his seating with the Free Folk though it seemed to Jon that Tormund was doing all the talking. No doubt about some wild story he had from beyond the Wall. But either way, Sansa was listening intently at every detail.

A chair in the middle of the hall pulled out from its table, and a Lord stood up from it and walked towards the dais. It was Lord Harland Magnar who was once just a soldier from a family of soldiers that fought for the Starks, but he was raised to a Lord by Sansa when Jon had gone south, she gave him the title and the lands that once belonged to Roose Bolton including the castle, Dreadfort. He had changed the name to Fort Magnar and raised his banners there. The sigil of House Magnar was created — a yellow northern helmet, with a black sword and axe behind it on a green field. Ever since, he and his family have been fiercely loyal to Sansa, and she has returned their loyalty in kind, Jon knew.

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Harland spoke in a deep voice.

Tormund turned, annoyed he was being interrupted and jumped over the table in front of the Lord.

“Who the fuck are you?” Tormund said, his face right up to Harland.

“Harland Magnar, of Fort Magnar,” he said, not backing down from the Wildling.

“Another southern twat,”

“Better a southern twat, than some stinking giant fucker.”

Tormund glared at the man, but neither backed down until Tormund started to laugh.

“I am a stinking giant fucker!” He bellowed and roared with laughter.

Harland joined him laughing, followed by the rest of the hall and the two men hugged, they talked awhile before Tormund turned and went to Davos’ table.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” Sansa asked of him when the hall quieted.

“My lady,” he began, “I apologise for bringing this up now. But my two sons died during the Long Night, and they say you had to fight the dead in the crypts, yourself.”

“Aye,” Sansa acknowledged what he said, though it appeared reluctant to Jon.

“My wife,” Harland continued. “Was in the crypts, she told me she would have died and left me alone in this world were it not for you.”

The lord fell to one knee in front of Sansa. “We owe you and Arya a debt my wife and I cannot repay.”

Sansa rose from her chair and made her way around the table to stand in front of Lord Magnar. She bent and grabbed his shoulders and began to lift him to his feet.

“Stand Harland,” she said. “You owe us nothing, you have our loyalty, as we have yours. Fight for us now and always that is all we ask. And I am sorry for the loss of your sons. We will never forget them. But I am sure you and Kaelys will have many more.”

The man smiled wide.

“Oh, we will my lady," he beamed at Sansa. "And I swear to you, House Magnar will never break faith to House Stark.”

“I know it,” Sansa replied with a smile.

Bronze Yon Royce rose from his chair with a cup of wine, slightly drunk.

“To the Lady of Winterfell and the Hero of Winterfell. To Sansa and Arya Stark.”

The whole hall rose from their chairs and bellowed in unison, Davos, Gendry, Tormund all joined. Sam, Gilly Brienne and Podrick. Even Tyrion and Jaime stood and raised their cups. But Jon noticed Daenerys did raise her goblet, slightly, but not stand. Nor Varys, Grey Worm or Missandei.

 _Why does it have to be this way?_ Jon cursed.

As people sat back down into their seats the door to the Great Hall opened, and Sansa walked down towards it, she stopped at the entrance to the hall and greeted a man who wore the sigil of a bear on its hind legs. He was a man of Bear Island who had fought to protect his Lady, Lyanna Mormont. More men and women of Bear Island entered the hall and Sansa greeted each one, she led them to a table at the front of the hall and had them sit as she helped the servants bring them food and pour them ale. _She is a good ruler_ , Jon thought. This isn’t the first time Sansa has done something like this, even before the Long Night. _It seems she took a page from her father. Her father?_ “Our father.” Arya’s words came to him.

“What is she doing?” Daenerys said to Jon.

“Hmm?” Jon said, still lost in his thoughts.

“Your sister, she sits with us, never speaking a word since the eating began and then leaves to eat and drink with soldiers and commoners. She talks to them like they are old friends.”

“They have no Lady anymore, and they feel guilty that they couldn’t protect her. Sansa is being the ruler she thinks she needs to be. Helping them to move on and keep fighting for the North.”

“You want to throw them into a war they are not ready to fight?” Jon remembered Sansa saying at the meeting earlier in the day, that had planned the attack on King’s Landing, an attack they were moving out for come the morrow. The men were still weary he knew, but The Queen demanded they attack sooner and Sansa’s constant questioning did not help. And Arya, she didn’t question The Queen, she left politics to Sansa, but she made it clear to Jon that she didn’t trust Daenerys. _Did she trust me, now that she knows the truth?_ Jon felt the sudden urge to speak to her, to confide in her, his little sister.

He noticed Sansa had gone to a table along the walls that had pitchers of wine and ale on it. She had begun pouring wine into several goblets. Jon rose from his chair and made his way towards her, as he approached, Sansa looked up and smiled.

“Hope you haven’t drunk too much, you have a long journey tomorrow.”

“It’s still early,” he said with a half a laugh “How are the Bear Islanders fairing?”

Sansa turned her head to look at the table with the men and women of Bear Island sitting at it.

“They fought well, but they are weary and losing Lyanna has struck down their confidence.”

“The Lady of Winterfell will inspire them again,” Jon smiled.

“She can try,” Sansa said.

Sansa began to turn her head back towards Jon, but she stopped her gaze at Daenerys.

“But that will be hard thanks to your queen, forcing them into another war so soon.”

Jon’s temper flared. “She’s your queen too.”

He grew tired of this battle of words between Sansa and Daenerys, but he knew better than to argue with Sansa, especially in front of everyone. He remembered why he had come to speak to her in the first place.

“Do you know where Arya is?”

“Probably off killing someone,” Sansa jested, still staring at Daenerys.

“Sansa.” He cut, frustrated.

She let out a breath of air from her nose and faced Jon.

“Try her chambers. She usually takes her meals there.”

“Thank you.”

Sansa picked up the goblets she had poured wine into and returned to the table of Bear Islanders, Jon returned his gaze at the goblets and pitchers in front of him and picked up two goblets and a pitcher of full of wine and one full of ale. He turned to make his way out the hall when he caught Daenerys staring at him from the great table. He smiled at her and made his way back.

“Planning on having a big night?” Dany said as he approached her.

“No,” he paused a moment. “I’m going to see Arya.”

Dany nodded, he could see the look on her face, was it disappointment? Anger?

“Give her my regards, I doubt I will be seeing her before we leave tomorrow.”

Jon knew a dismissal when he heard one, he nodded at Daenerys and left the Great Hall.

He walked through the towers and high halls of Winterfell towards the chambers, as he approached Arya’s chamber he slowed his pace, when he got to her door, he leaned into it and placed his ear on the wood. He could hear nothing but the clatter of utensils and plate and the light crackling of a fire.

Then the door swung open and his weight collapsed as he startled forward almost dropping the goblets and spilling the ale. He caught himself before he fell and looked as Arya, with her brow raised high at him stood, holding the door open.

“The Hero of Winterfell,” Jon said in jest when he composed himself.

Arya narrowed her eyes as she looked at him.

“Your queen gave me that title,” she mocked.

Jon let out a breath of frustration, _This again_ , he thought.

“She is your queen too.”

“What the hells were you doing?” She demanded, changing the subject abruptly.

Jon realised Arya was not going to argue with him about whether Dany was her queen or not, just as Sansa wouldn’t. His sisters were true northerners, as stubborn as the rest, no matter how many times he corrected them, they would still defy it.

“Just making sure you weren’t asleep, or… had other company.” He said.

“ _Other company_?” she asked with a quizzical look. “Gendry and I aren’t together anymore Jon.”

“I never said anything,” he couldn’t help but smile.

Arya smirked at her brother. “You were thinking it." Her eyes went to the pitchers. “What did you bring?"

“Abor Red?” Jon said, offering the pitcher full of wine to her.

Arya’s face scrunched up. “Don’t like that shit, too bloody sweet.”

“Ale it is then,” Jon replied as he entered her chambers.

Arya nodded in agreement, she had been sitting on the floor facing her fireplace, a small plate of food that had recently been finished sat at the foot of her bed as well as an empty goblet. She moved them so her and Jon could sit together facing the fireplace.

“How did you know someone was there, outside your door?” He said as he sat down.

"After everything you’ve seen me do, you ask that?” Arya quizzed, smiling. “I heard you walk up to it,” she continued, “and most people know not to bother me when I am in here, except for you.”

Jon smiled as he poured the ale into the two goblets. “Am I bothering you?”

“Of course not, you brought ale.” she said with a sly grin.

He laughed as he passed a goblet to his sister, Arya smiled as they cheered their cups and drank.

"They cheered you again, you know. And Sansa" Jon said.

"Of course they did, their Northmen." Arya said with a slight contempt in her voice.

"Lots of people cheer, sister."

"Lots of cunts." Arya said suddenly, surprising Jon.

"Arya!" he reprimanded, but he could not help laugh at what she said. "Where in the hells did you learn to speak like that? Not from here."

Arya smiled, "The taste of ale, good food and how best to kill a man, wasn't the only thing I learnt from Sandor."

Jon only shook his head as she laughed at him.

“Do you remember when we were younger,” Jon reminisced, “you used to sneak away from feasts and come find me and have some of my Abor wine.”

“I remember,” Arya said.

“You used to like it then.”

“I was very different in those days.”

“Aye, you and me both. Little sister.”

Jon caught a glimpse of Arya flashing a small smile at his little sister comment, he was happy he added that. This felt like Winterfell before everything changed when they were both naive children who didn't know the world and had each other. Before he was a Warden with armies at his command and she was a Hero with half of Westeros and more praising her. They drank and finished their first cup in silence, as Jon poured more ale, Arya spoke.

“I remember one night Bran and Sansa had been picking on me, so I went out to find you, and you were practising with your sword. You showed me some moves and told me how they could work on an opponent. It was my first sword lesson.” Arya smiled at her brother.

“You have learned a lot more since then. I don’t think I could teach you anymore. Speaking of, how did you…” Jon paused, unsure of whether he should ask.

“How did I what?”

“The Night King, how did you manage to kill him?”

“I stuck him with the pointy end, right in the heart. Or where his heart would be.” She said reserved.

“You said that when I asked you the morning after the battle. You haven’t told me how you managed to sneak past his white walkers and wights or sneak through all of Winterfell to the Godswood.”

“I almost didn’t make it,” Arya admitted to Jon’s surprise.

“What happened?” Jon said.

Arya took a big gulp of her ale, emptying the goblet she leaned over him, grabbed the pitcher and poured herself another drink.

“Beric Dondarrion,” she said when she sat back.

“Aye,” Jon responded, perplexed. “What about him?”

“He was brought back to life, six times,” Arya said, staring into the fire.

“He told me,” Jon said. “He said that because we both got brought back to life, that he and I had a purpose that only the Lord of Light knew. And then he died like thousands of others and hasn’t come back.”

“He saved my life, him and Sandor. That was his purpose.”

Jon turned his head to look at Arya, she was staring intensely at the fireplace as still as death. The light of the fire lit her face and lightened her hair, which she had let out straight, to fall onto her shoulders.

“They saved you?” Jon asked.

She blinked, remembering where she was.

“The wights were attacking me. He threw his flaming sword at them then he and Sandor got me out. More than once, he put his life on the line so that I could reach safety. He made it with us, but he died before I could say thank you.”

He noticed his sister's eyes begin to well up with tears, but she blinked them away and continued speaking.

“We got into a room, the dead were smashing the door, and we knew it wouldn’t last. But The Red Woman was there.”

Jon looked at Arya in confusion. “Melisandre?” He said.

Arya nodded. “I met her when I was travelling with the Brotherhood. She gave me a prophecy and said that we would meet again. That prophecy came true, I met her again, and she explained what Beric’s purpose was, he was to ensure I lived so that I could kill the Night King and end the Long Night.”

Jon looked dumbfounded, Beric Dondarrion, the man who intended to sell Arya to Robb at ransom when she was a child. The man who led a band of outlaw do-gooders had been brought back by his Lord just to save Arya’s life. He looked down at his ale and took a long drink.

“She told me about a prophecy I had a part in,” Jon said. “Of the Prince who was Promised. I don’t know if that has come true, I don’t put much into prophecy. What was yours?”

“She told me of eyes that I would shut forever, brown eyes, green eyes and blue eyes. I have killed a lot of people with all different coloured eyes, but the Night Kings icy blue eyes were the important ones, I suppose. As soon as she said that I knew what I had to do.”

“It took all my training,” Arya continued, “I snuck through the halls of our home, I killed when I had to. Otherwise I did my best to avoid them. I was like a cat; quiet as a shadow and light as a feather. Then I got to the Godswood just before he was going to kill Bran, I had to be fast but quiet enough that they wouldn’t notice me. I got through the wights but I was going to slow, so I had to run as fast as I could pass the white walkers, I made it and I leapt off a pile of dead wights to kill the Night King. But they must have noticed me, cause he turned and grabbed me.”

“Grabbed you? You never mentioned that.” Jon said, surprised.

Arya nodded her head, “But I was quick enough to switch to my right hand and stab him in the heart.”

“Lucky you learnt to be ambidextrous too,” Jon said, half-jokingly.

“Aye,” was all Arya replied.

The two sat drinking, quietly for a moment, processing what was said, staring into the fire. Then Jon remembered how Bran showed them the mark the Night King left on his arm.

“Bran said he-”

Already knowing what Jon was going to ask, Arya pulled up the sleeve of her left hand and showed the print of a hand wrapped around her wrist, it was ice blue.

“Does it hurt?” He asked.

“Not as much as this one,” Arya said and removed her cloth neck wrap, and pulled down her jerkin slightly to reveal a deeper ice handprint that wrapped around her neck. Jon looked at it and worry came over his face.

“It burns sometimes, but it’s bearable.”

He suddenly felt guilty, that she had to endure so much and he wasn’t there for her. All these years she was alone suffering and struggling while he thought she was dead.

“I’m sorry,” he began. “Sorry I wasn’t there for you, after King’s Landing, sorry I wasn’t there for you during the Long Night. I tried but that dragon-”

“Jon, shut up,” Arya said holding his cheek in her hand. “Stop apologising, I know you were doing all you could during the Long Night, but we were facing things out of our control. And you were there for me after King’s Landing. You gave me Needle, you were with me the whole time and if it weren’t for that I probably wouldn’t have survived, it saved me and it took me on a path I needed to go on. Had I not gone on that path, and had I not heard you were not only alive but King in the North. Things might have been very different. We might all be walking dead. Defeating the Night King was as much your feat as it was mine.”

“I guided her to a part of her destiny, a destiny that you and her share.” Melisandre’s words spoken in Jon’s mind. The siblings continued to drink, as they shared more of the stories of their journeys and reminisced of when they were younger, both Arya and Jon had become increasingly intoxicated as the night went on. Then, as if something turned over in Arya’s mind, she became serious, and dread filled her face.

“There is something I need to tell you, big brother,” she said with melancholy.

“What is it?” Jon said, concern rising in him.

“Do you know what happened to the Freys?”

“A little, something about a massacre. Something about a girl that changed her face or such.”

Arya said nothing but stared at Jon. He looked back at her and it took him a long moment before he came to the realisation.

“You,” He blurted

“Me.”

Jon listened as Arya explained what happened, how she infiltrated the twins, how she fed Walder his sons and cut his throat. How she assumed his face and body and poisoned his entire house and the words she said to the servant girls that were left standing. She explained how she met the Faceless Men and trained with them and what they taught her, and everything made sense to Jon. Arya’s attitude, her fighting skills, her ability to appear out of nowhere, her uncanny ability to read a person's emotions and tell if they are lying.

But Jon felt wrong, his little sister had murdered an entire house, fed a man his sons. And she spoke of more killing she did, Ser Meryn Trant, the Waif, Frey Soldiers, Lannister Soldiers, a young boy. And her list. Her list of names of people she was going to kill, she spoke it and those lives on it she already took herself and how she took them. None of it was honourable, none felt right.

“Jon?” Arya said, with a weak voice when he had become quiet. “Say something.”

He did not know what to say. His mind race with what she had done, all the death and pain she had brought. But he knew, she did what she had to do to survive and, she was there, helpless when her father got murdered, she saw Robb’s body massacred and treated like a puppet. And she saw much more, she saw things no child should have.

“I don’t like what you did,” he said. “I can’t accept it, I never will. But you’re my little sister, and nothing will change that. And I will always be here for you. No matter what.”

Arya wrapped her hands around his neck, Jon grabbed her and hugged her back.

“I have dreams that keep me awake,” she said in his ear. “And thoughts that come to me that make my body shake and my mind fall dark. Sansa told me to talk to you about all this. She said it would help me.”

Jon felt his heart sink at her confession, no matter how strong she portrayed herself, how much skill she has and how brave she could be, she still had her own demons from what she went through.

“If you ever need to talk to me again,” he said. “I will always make time for you, no matter how far away we are from each other. I promise I will find a way.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Sansa was right, it helps to talk about these things.”

“She’s always right Jon.”

“Aye,” he laughed.

Arya's grip of her arms around him tightened when he said that, as did his on her. The two held the hug for a long time before they parted.

They continued drinking into the night until Arya had drunk so much that her words were not forming and she eventually fell asleep on Jon’s shoulder. He picked her up and carried her into her bed and laid her flat. As she lay there she looked everything of a young woman, not a hardened warrior. He parted her hair from her face and the scar on her forehead shone in the firelight. He kissed the scar gently and backed away from her bed quietly, slowly opening and closing her door and making his way back through the castle, a shade drunker than he was when he went to her chambers.

He thought to himself of the stories Arya had told him, everything she had been through and done. He felt pride for her and sadness. And he remembered how she spoke of Beric Dondarrion saving her life, the man had died before either of them could thank him. But Jon could speak to the other man that saved her, the man that was with her in the Riverlands, who protected and fought for her when she couldn’t. The man she told Jon she respected despite his gruff attitude and brutal ways. Jon walked out of the castle into the cold night air outside, intending on finding Sandor Clegane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Arya's dagger. I didn't like in the show that it was just a regular Valyrian dagger, I was hoping it would be something with some history aside from being Littlefingers. So I made it Dark Sister and explained that Visyena had two swords and the history's mistakenly thought Dark Sister was the longsword. It also is a nice full circle thing that Dark Sister is now Arya's dagger (the dark sister of her family) that was made by one of her heroes. You don't have to like the change, this is fan fiction after all.


	5. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa organises her and Jon's armies. Daenerys' tests her and Sansa reveals her plans to Arya.

The early morning dew squelched under her feet as she walked through Winterfell. Her head was slightly aching from wine the night before, as she had enjoyed the night spending time with her lords and ladies and speaking to the people from Bear Island, hearing the issues that would arise in their home and helping them move on from the loss of their Lady, Lyanna Mormont, the Giant-Slayer. "She was a beacon of strength and honour, she still is." Is what Sansa hold told them, they beamed at that, and they started to enjoy themselves more, in Lyanna's memory.

Ser Brienne walked beside, her steps more lively than Sansa's, no doubt due to being Knighted by Jaime Lannister, surviving the dead and enjoying his company in the following nights. But she could wander through her thoughts no longer as she had work to do. She saw Lord Royce supervising men from the Vale loading up a wagon of food and stocks, making ready for the march down to King's Landing. He turned as he heard Sansa and Brienne approach.

"My lady, Ser Brienne," he bowed to the two, smiling.

"My lord, have you finished loading everything for the journey?" Sansa asked of him.

"Just about my lady, we will be ready to leave when Jon Snow commands. Have no doubt."

"Good, after The Dragon Queen arrived, I sent out request for food from Essos and word to my uncle Edmure and cousin Robin. We should expect a few wagons from my uncle in the Riverlands, and some Lord Arryn has graciously gifted us from the Vale. If the seas are kind, the ships from Pentos and Braavos should dock at White Harbor safely and intact, and you should pass the wagons as you travel south in the coming days. I have spoken to Lord Manderly, told him what to take south for the armies and what to send north for the remainder of the winter."

"Very good, my lady," Royce beamed. "What would you have me do?"

"Ride ahead of the Knights of the Vale with Lord Manderly and go to White Harbor. Coordinate with him regarding the food shipments, then link back up with the main armies before they reach Moat Cailin. Manderly will organise the food for the northern armies but make sure the Knights of the Vale get a fair amount of food for them and their horses."

"Understood, my lady."

She placed a hand on Royce's shoulder. "Be safe, Bronze. Show the Golden Company the power of the Vale and the North."

Royce smiled wide at Sansa's words, "Aye my lady. They will see the Vale and the North together, just as before."

Sansa returned his smile and made her leave. Ser Brienne walked steadily beside her as they paced back through Winterfell's courtyards. Sansa ambled through her home, looking at the Northmen preparing for the march and the coming battle. They were weary, exhausted they needed more time. She pleaded their case, but it was ignored, and she could do no more for them. She observed people rebuilding the castle, cutting wood for interiors and landings and others shaping and plastering stone for walls and buildings. They were no Stonemason's like the early Starks of Brandon the Builders time, but they were what they had. Winterfell would be rebuilt to its former glory and the rest of the North with it. Sansa knew it, and she wanted it.

As she glanced around her home and her people, her eyes caught the presence of the Lannister brothers approaching. She faced them, straightened her back and raised her chin. As they approached, she noticed the flash of smiles taking place between Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne.

"Wasn't expecting either of you to be awake this early," she said.

"Well I am Hand of the Queen, I have certain responsibilities," Tyrion responded, though Sansa noticed the tiredness in his eyes.

"That never stopped you from whoring and drinking as Hand in King's Landing Tyrion," she replied whimsically.

"Lady Sansa!" Tyrion said with a smiling

Before anything else could be said, the Dragon Queen made herself present with Jon beside her followed by her advisers, Lord Varys and Missandei.

"Lady Sansa," Daenerys said, stepping forth. "I heard you enjoyed yourself last night. It was quite a feast. I must thank you."

"You're welcome, Your Grace. It was the least I could do for all those about to undertake another war," Sansa paused a breath, "so eagerly."

Daenerys' jaw clenched, "That's good to hear, though I wish I could have enjoyed more of the delicious wine. You almost drank it all yourself from what I've heard." she gave a fake laugh, and Sansa noticed Daenerys wore a smirk on her face that could rival Cersei Lannister.

Sansa smiled. "Well, I had the company of my lords and ladies to help me enjoy the wine. As you have no doubt, experienced yourself, no?"

Daenerys' smirk vanished, but she did not say anything.

"I hope you have a safe journey, Your Grace." Sansa continued. "And I hope the North was warm enough for you, though winter is a harsh mistress and won't yield so easily, no matter how many people a dragon burns." Sansa made herself stare at Daenerys.

"Won't it?" Daenerys said, moving forward, her face inches away from Sansa's. She had become the scorn of fury as she looked directly into Sansa.

"When I take the Iron Throne," Daenerys spoke with contempt. "I hope to see you and your sister, the Ladies of Winterfell, in King's Landing. Kneeling, besides your brother."

Sansa only gave a wry smile. "I wish you good fortune, in the war to come. Your Grace."

Daenerys' filled with anger. Though before she could do or say anything, Grey Worm called to his queen. She took a moment, staring at Sansa, then she moved back and made her way to the Unsullied, her advisers following, Jon stepped up besides Sansa.

"Why can't you get along with her, for me." He said.

"We get along fine," Sansa replied with sarcasm.

"I wouldn't call that getting along," Jaime interjected.

"Once again, very astute of you." Sansa ridiculed him. "You aren't the dumbest person alive, Ser Jaime. But you had better hope they don't die."

Tyrion let out a loud laugh at his brother's expense, and Brienne chortled trying to contain her own laughter. Jaime Lannister wore a look on his face as if he had just been slapped.

"Come, Jaime," Tyrion spoke when he contained himself. "I could do with some help regarding the armies."

The two brothers proceeded to make their leave before Sansa spoke to her sword. "Perhaps you could join them, Ser Brienne."

Brienne knew a dismissal when she heard one. "Yes, my lady." She bowed deeply to Sansa and joined Tyrion and Jaime.

Before they made their leave, Tyrion faced Sansa. "I will speak to you before we leave, my lady," he said.

She nodded at him, and they parted, heading to where the Unsullied had begun preparing.

"Why do you have to antagonise Dany?" Jon said after they left, "It will do no good once she takes the throne."

"If she takes it," Sansa changed.

"She has our armies, her own, and two dragons Sansa."

"Is she going to burn down King's Landing with them?" She chastised Jon.

"She won't do that."

"What if she does," Sansa turned to her brother, considering him. "Will you still speak for her, fight for her, love her?"

Jon let out a sigh of frustration and refused to look at Sansa; instead, he opted on changing the subject.

"Have we heard anything from Lord Glover?"

"No," Sansa returned her view to the men of the North and Unsullied, watching them prepare. "He refuses to fight for us. We have to deal with him once this war is over Jon."

"Glover won't just waltz his army outside Deepwood Motte for us," Jon said. "He will stay inside his castle until he is granted safety. Or he will try and withstand a siege if it comes to that."

"I know, but neither of those things will happen."

"What do you mean?" Jon asked, turning to Sansa.

"Lord Glover's cowardice has been noted by the North, especially after the battle with the dead," Sansa spoke. "Once his soldiers and people inside Deepwood Motte hear the heroic stories of the Long Night and realise the whole North now stands against them, they may be less inclined to fight for or serve Lord Glover."

Jon gave a slight smile at his sister, "Sounds like southern tricks," he said wryly.

"I did learn a thing or two in King's Landing. You've just spent too much time with the Free Folk."

"Aye, maybe I have. Are those food provisions still on their way?"

"Last I heard," she said. "I have spoken to Bronze and Wyman regarding them. They will be organising the wagons for our armies and the winter stores."

"Thank you, Sansa." An intense look of curiosity came to Jon's face as he regarded his sister. "Where did you get the gold to purchase all that food from Essos?"

"Littlefinger," she answered.

"You had him killed."

"Exactly, and he left quite a bit of gold in his wake."

"And you're happy to use that man's gold?" He asked.

"Shall I persecute the gold for Littlefinger's crimes?"

"You know what I mean."

"I do," Sansa admitted, "trust me I didn't want to use anything associated with Littlefinger, but we needed it, Jon, we can't rely on ale and wine to sustain us."

He gave half a laugh and an almost inaudible sigh in response.

"Speaking of ale and wine," Sansa continued. "Did you find Arya last night?"

"Aye," Jon smiled at the memory. "We might have had too much ale, I think. Have you seen her? I was hoping to speak to her before we leave."

She grinned at the thought of a drunk Arya and Jon together "She is skulking someplace, you know how she is. She will appear out of nowhere and speak to you before you leave. She won't let you go again without saying goodbye."

Jon considered that a moment before his smile faded, and his face became one of sorrow.

"She told me of what she did," he said. "To the Freys, Meryn Trant, all the other people she killed, her list."

Sansa became sedate, knowing how difficult it was for Arya to tell her, she realised it must have been far more challenging to tell Jon.

"She said you told her to speak to me," he resumed. "That she was having problems, struggles, with what she's seen."

"She needed to, and it will help her. I hope it will anyway."

"Jon," a voice called from behind them. They both turned, the voice belonged to Davos Seaworth, he had a bowl of hot soup in his hands, holding it close to his face to breath in the warmth.

"I wanted to go over the march with you before we leave," he said.

"Give me a moment," Jon replied, he turned back to Sansa. "I hope it helps Arya too. I know you, and I have our differences. But I still love you. You can always speak to me like a brother about anything."

"You _are_ my brother," she said, smiling at him. "Go with Davos. You need to prepare."

The two hugged, Sansa, made the hug last. She did not know when they would see each other again. He was the best man she ever knew, and she was scared for his safety.

"Don't do anything stupid," she said to him as they parted. He gave her a wry smile in response.

She watched as Jon walked away with Davos, through the archway of the courtyard between Unsullied and Northmen, and finally disappearing. She lingered her eyesight were she last saw him, reflecting on what he told her and Arya the day before.

 _"My real name is Aegon Targaryen,"_  he told them. _This could destroy the Dragon Queen, he is the rightful air. A King to unite both north and south. A good ruler, a good man._

As she schemed in her mind of the next play, she noticed Tormund Giantsbane conversing with Sandor Clegane as he saddled his black destrier, the men were as tall and wide as each other, a southern giant and a northern giant, Sansa had concluded.

"And I kicked that dead cunts head like a ball," Tormund laughed as Sansa approached them. "Ahh me and that Gendry boy stood on a mountain of those fucks, he is a strong lad, like you."

Tormund placed a big hand and Sandor's shoulder, but he violently shoved it off.

"How many fuckin' times 'ave I said it. I don't like people touchin' me!" Sandor said, scorning.

"You didn't mind when I touched you," Sansa interjected, smiling at Sandor.

He looked to her for a moment. "Fuckin' gingers," he said reproachfully and turned back to tighten his saddle.

Tormund laughed loudly, "I always knew you had a soft side Clegane." He shifted his body to Sansa, approached her and clasped both his hands on her shoulders.

"You can hold your drink," he said to her, smiling. "It was a good night."

"It was," Sansa grinned. "Are the Free Folk leaving today?"

"Bah, later on. We're in no rush."

"I'm sorry to see you go. The Free Folk will always have a friend in Winterfell, from now until the end of time."

Tormund gave her a wide grin "Till the end of time," he agreed. "You Starks are hard to kill," he gave her a little hug and parted. He turned to Sandor and outstretched his hand.

Sandor turned to him, looked at his outstretched hand, gave breath, then took it in his hand, and the two giant men shook a wordless appreciation of each other.

"Are you leaving?" Sansa asked of Sandor, as Tormund left them.

"Is that why all these dumb northern fucks chose you as their leader because you can spot the obvious? Dumb cunts."

Sansa smirked at his comment. "Where are you going to go?"

"None of yer fucking business."

She stared at him, challenging him as she had done before.

"King's Landing," he yielded. "I got... business down there."

"With your brother?" Sansa ventured.

"For fuck sake, did that little bitch tell you?"

"I've known about you and brother for quite some time, but yes Arya gave me more of the details."

Sandor sighed, stopping his work on the saddle and leaning his head against it. Sansa placed a hand, lightly on his shoulder. He looked at it but made no move to shove it off.

"You don't have to go," she said. "Stay here, Winterfell can be your home. You will always have a place here."

"I don't want a fuckin' home."

"No, you don't," she put force on her hand as to make Sandor's body turn to face her. He did, and she stood, eye to eye with him, as tall as him. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms about his neck and hugged him tightly. After a moment, she felt him place one of his hands, gently on her upper back.

"Thank you, Sandor. For helping Arya, and me," she spoke to him in their embrace.

Sansa broke from the hug and faced him again, Sandor Clegane said nothing but gave her a short nod. She stepped back, reflected on him a moment, hoping that she could see this man again, but doubting it all the same. She left him as he finished saddling his destrier, the echoing thoughts through her mind, of how he looked out for her when she was a child in King's Landing, and the stories Arya told her of their journey together through Westeros and how he helped save her during the Long Night. Sandor was a good man, Sansa decided. She hoped he would find peace, revenge, or whatever he was looking for when he returned to King's Landing.

Sansa strolled through the courtyards of her home, past her people rebuilding, or preparing for another war. She had decided to head inside, for the warmth of the castle, write some much-needed scrolls and make plans for the future. As she approached the castle doors, she saw out the corner of her eye, a small boy with an old direwolf pin sown on his tunic. He stood underneath the battlements waving to her, at her attention, he ran to a Keep vanishing within. Sansa proceeded after the boy and entered the building he had escaped into.

"Lady Sansa," she heard a thin voice call to her.

She turned just as she entered and saw the small boy, with messy brown hair in tattered brown rags and fur, standing before her. She crouched down to his eye level and smiled at him.

"Hello, Duncan," she said.

"Hello!" he said with a wide grin, that quickly faded and his voice turned into a whisper.

"The west is best, look to the woods and hear it."

Sansa nodded slightly and also went into a whisper. "Very good, Duncan."

She pulled out a gold coin from inside her corset and a candy wrapped in parchment and handed them to the boy. He smiled wide again, pocketed the gold and candy, turned and ran out of the keep.

* * *

 

"The west is best?" Sansa said as she approached Arya on the western battlements.

"You told me to use your little wolves, and you told me to make our whispers as confusing as possible to others outside our pack," Arya replied

"And that's what you came up with?" Sansa teased.

"Shut up."

Sansa smiled and cast her gaze to the Wolfswood.

"Have you found anything?"

"Yes. I watched Varys as you asked, he seems to eye The Dragon Queen closely, especially since the Long Night. Like he's assessing her or watching her decisions."

"Do you think he has doubts about her rule?" Sansa asked.

"Maybe, possibly. Politics are your game."

Sansa considered this a moment, remembering the conversation she had with Lord Varys, before the battle with the dead and the conversation she had with Tyrion as they burrowed in the crypts, during the struggle above.

"I think I am going to tell someone about Jon and his true parentage."

"What!" Arya reproached, turning on her sister. "You swore to Jon that you wouldn't tell anyone."

Arya's eyes were ablaze, Sansa knew she wouldn't like this, but she had to be honest with her, Jon needed Arya's protection in King's Landing if things were going to go how Sansa wanted.

"I did, but he can't expect me to keep something like that a secret."

"You swore to him in the Godswood."

"This is more important than oaths and bloody honour, Arya. Jon is the rightful heir, he is a good ruler, and he could unite the north and south, for once we could have a good, honourable man as King of the Seven Kingdoms and his children to continue his legacy."

Arya examined her sister a moment, still uncomfortable with the prospect.

"Who will you tell?" She asked, turning back to face the Wolfswood.

"Tyrion, maybe. I trust him; he trusts me. And I know he cares for me if I tell him he won't go and immediately inform the Dragon Queen for fear of my life. But I know him, he won't be able to keep something this provocative to himself for long, he will want to speak to someone about it, someone close, someone he has been friends with since King's Landing."

"Varys," Arya calculated.

"We can assume Varys doubts his queen," Sansa said. "This could help further that and put into motion Jon's ascent."

"Jon said he doesn't want it," Arya contradicted. "He said he didn't want to be Lord Commander of the Night's Watch or King in the North."

"Unfortunately for Jon, he is very good at what he hates doing," Sansa said. "And we never get what we want in this world. You know that."

"The Dragon Queen will find out."

"Then it sows mistrust and discord amongst her advisers, dwindling her strength, perhaps she makes mistakes by not trusting them or loses her temper. As she has done in the past, hopefully, it enough for Jon and the rest to see how power-hungry and irrational she is, just as you and I do."

"This could hurt Jon," Arya said, with woeful eyes. "He is a threat to her. She may end up having him killed."

"She loves him. I believe she will avoid doing that as much as she can."

"But what if she does?"

"You will be there to look out for him, or to help him do what is necessary."

Arya nodded in assent and turned, facing her sister again.

"Sansa, your betrayal will hurt him the most, I don't know if he'll forgive you."

Sansa weighed this as she looked to the Wolfswood, the vast forest of North, the battlements of Winterfell was one of the few places you could see them. Now the forest was down a few hundred trees as they needed its wood for defences and rebuilding, the Wolfswood made its own sacrifice for the North and its people.

She breathed a deep sigh, "If that's what is sacrificed, then let it be."

She hoped this was not true, she hoped Jon would forgive her, she wanted him to be King, but she still wanted her brother.

Arya grabbed Sansa's hand in hers. "Do what you think is best, I will try to send a raven with news from King's Landing when I can."

"Good. Hopefully, you can kill Cersei and we can avoid a battle or siege altogether."

Arya released her hand from Sansa, "The Dragon Queen won't like it if that happens."

"I can't believe she wouldn't accept sending you down on your own, " Sansa pondered with disbelief, "like you suggested in the war council, before they started going on about armies and numbers. You've already proven you can handle yourself many times over."

"I don't think it's that, I think The Dragon Queen wants Cersei for herself."

"Best we don't tell her then. Or Jon," Sansa wryly proclaimed. "Be safe in King's Landing, Arya."

"Aye," Arya stepped behind Sansa and began walking away, making her way down the steps of the battlements

"Sister," Sansa called to her before she went out of sight. Arya turned to face her

"Sandor was saddling his horse earlier. He is going to King's Landing too. I think he would like your company," Sansa said.

"I doubt it," Arya responded with a smile.

"I think you would enjoy his company as well," Sansa said with a smirk and Arya's smile widened, she nodded slightly to her sister and proceeded down the castle walls.


	6. Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry dwells on his new title but loses a love. He gets a taste of politics and how Sansa schemes.

He missed the sound of hammering steel or dragonglass, the hissing as heat dissipated when he quenched the scorching material. He missed the feeling of a blacksmith hammer in his hands and the force of hitting the anvil, the feel of a newly forged weapon and the satisfaction he felt when he completed one. But he was no longer a blacksmith, the bastard son of a king. He was Lord Gendry Baratheon, of Storm's End and the lawful son of King Robert Baratheon. _Does this make me a prince?_ He wondered while walking through Winterfell's cold and dreary courtyards. He hoped he wasn't a prince; he barely felt like a lord; he was still just a blacksmith. How could he possibly know what to do as a lord? Let alone the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands which came with his new title, let alone as a prince or worse, a king.

While he dwelled on his new titles and the lands he was preparing to leave for, he stopped in his path as he noticed Arya talking to one of Sansa Stark's household guards, the talk went quickly as shortly after spotting her, she turned and began to leave. Gendry followed, making sure not to lose sight of her while she walked through the yard, under a stone archway and into another. But as he passed through the threshold between the two yards, a builder carrying a large wood plank suddenly cut him off, almost causing Gendry to knock the builder over.

"Watch where ya fuckin' going!" the builder yelled as he recovered himself.

"You watch your  _fuckin'_ tongue," a voice said from behind Gendry. "That is _Lord_ Gendry Baratheon."

He turned his head to find the voice, and Arya was standing behind him. Her eyes on the builder.

"S-sorry m'lady, m-m'lord," the builder said, becoming quiet and timid. Arya gave nothing in response, only focused her gaze on Gendry. The builder took this silence as his leave and proceeded back on his path with his job.

"How did you…" Gendry said to her, motioning behind him and hinting at how she went from one place to another so quickly.

"This is my home."

He looked at her dumbfounded. "That doesn't explain how you just—"

"Why were you following me? _My lord_." Arya cut him off and gave a wry smile when she called him lord.

"I… I wanted to speak to you."

"So you followed me, like some odd—"

"Aye I was following you," he broke through, frustrated. "I had to make sure the Hero of Winterfell could make time to talk," he added, deliberately making his tone a mocking one.

Her smile faded. "Don't be like that."

"Be like what?" he responded, rising further in frustration. "Annoyed that you turned me down after it felt like you used me. Angry that I spoke my heart to you and you just… just stabbed like it was another thing you had to kill."

"I told you why I couldn't marry you," she said, sadness coming over her face. "Why I couldn't be your lady. Or anyone's lady. It's not me, and I'm not going to change who I am or do something that I don't want to do, just to make someone else happy. You didn't know any of this Gendry, which means you didn't know me."

"I could've. I could have gotten to know Arya Stark properly."

"You wouldn't have liked her."

 _Yes I would have_ , he thought, looking into her eyes. He knew how he felt about her, no matter what, he would still love her. After a long moments pause, Gendry broke his gaze from Arya and looked about Winterfell.

"You're wrong," he said. "But I can't change your mind, no one can. Tormund was right about you. You're a wild wolf."

She gave a slight smile at his comment, and her eyes caught the attention of Jon Snow and their brother.

"I'm going to say goodbye to Jon and Bran, come with me," she said as she started towards them. Gendry followed. _Why would she need to say goodbye to Bran?_ He thought to himself while they quickly neared them.

Jon noticed their approach and offered his hand to Gendry. He took it and as they shook Jon clasped his other hand on top.

"Thank you for all your help," Jon said to him smiling.

Gendry nodded his head, "I'm just glad we're alive."

"Aye, me too."

Maester Wolkan approached them and grabbed Bran's chair, ready to wheel him off. Brandon Stark looked intently at Arya, and she put her hand onto his.

"I'll see you, little brother," she said to him, and Gendry thought he heard almost remorse in her voice.

"You will," Bran said in his monotonous tone. Gendry noticed Arya slightly narrow her eyes at her brothers comment, but she quickly lost that look and turned to Jon as Bran was wheeled off.

Gendry watch the strangest Stark get wheeled off by the Maester while Arya and Jon hugged each other. Arya spoke to him as they broke their embrace.

"Don't do anything stupid," she said.

Jon gave regarded her with a wide grin and a short laugh. "Sansa said the same thing."

"You better be extra careful then," she said with a smile.

"Aye," he returned the smile and cupped her cheek in his hand. "I'll see you when I return."

"Pity you're not coming with us, my lady," Ser Davos said as he approached them. "I saw you fight the dead, we could do with your skills."

"Don't give her any ideas," Jon said with a laugh, and he gave his farewells to Gendry and Arya. They watch Jon and Ser Davos stride off, Gendry turned to Arya, and he saw a sadness in her eyes as she looked to her bastard brother.

"You will do well as Lord of Storm's End," she stated all of a sudden.

"I don't know about that, I barely—"

"Know how to use a fork," Arya finished for him. "I know, but you will have advisers and other lords to help you."

" _And_ , many pretty lady's that would love to help as well," she added with a coy smile and turned to face him.

Gendry knew what she was implying, but he was too concerned in his thoughts. "I was a blacksmith, who turned out to be a bastard that no one knew about. To a king who wasn't a good ruler and I was raised to a lawful Baratheon by a foreign queen of a family, you and my father went to war with. How can I trust the people in my service, when they have no reason to trust me."

"You probably shouldn't ask me questions like that," Arya said. "My general response is to just kill them all."

Gendry shook his head. "I'm being serious Arya."

"So was I," she said coldly. "If you are that concerned, you should speak to Sansa. She can help you, give you advice."

Arya was right enough if the North was anything to go by and by how highly Arya talked of her sister, then Sansa was indeed a good ruler, and her people loved her. It wouldn't hurt to ask her one or two things he figured.

"Could you take me to her, I don't know the inside of the castle well."

"I can't. I'm leaving."

Gendry's eyes widened. "Now? Where?"

"King's Landing," she replied.

"Why? That city will be at war soon. It might even burn."

"Unfinished business," Arya answered. "Don't tell anyone, especially Jon. I don't want him to worry about me being in the city while he has to focus on his war to take it."

He sighed at her constant refusal to answer questions accurately.

"I won't," he reluctantly agreed. "Will I see you again?"

"Probably not," she said.

She grabbed Gendry's face with both her hands and brought it down to hers. They closed their eyes as their lips locked in a deep, long kiss. A kiss he would never forget, nor would he ever want too. As their lips finally parted, they stared at each other. She smiled wide at him while he became lost in her deep eyes.

"Aberdale," she called, looking past Gendry and releasing her hands from his face.

One of Sansa Starks household guards quickly approached them; it was the one Arya was talking to earlier.

"Aye, Arya?" he addressed her when he approached.

"Could you guide Gendry to Sansa's solar?"

"Aye, no' a problem. This way m'lord," the guard stepped back and opened his left arm, making for a direction.

Gendry looked to Arya. "Lady Stark," he said whimsically, and he saw the smile appear across her face that made his heart flutter.

"Lord Baratheon," she replied coquettishly, then turned and made her way out of Winterfell. Gendry regarded her, as the dark-haired Lady Arya Stark, the Hero of Winterfell and the woman he loved, walked away.

* * *

 A muffled, "yes?" came from the other side of the door after Aberdale knocked, he opened it as Gendry stood behind him.

"M'Lady Stark," the guard said into the solar. "Lord Gendry wishes tah speak tah ya." Gendry heard no response, but Aberdale stepped to the side and motion Gendry through.

He stepped in, it was a large room, with a large bed at one side, on the other a fire roared in a hearth and a long fine wooden desk stood before it. The sill above the hearth rested small statues in the image of direwolves or weirwood faces. A lesser table sat underneath a window next to the fire, with pitchers of wine and goblets on it. The grey stone walls of the room wore minor variants of the grey and white banners of House Stark with their direwolf sigil in the centre of the banners. It was a Lords Chamber for the Lady Paramount of the North, and it was much warmer than the halls of Winterfell. If he came closer, Gendry could hear the water from Winterfell's hot springs coursing through the castles walls.

Lady Sansa was sitting facing the door, at the fine desk in front of the hearth, writing intently on a parchment.

"Aberdale," she called to her guard, lifting her head from her writing. "Thank you for your service, go join Jon's army like you wished, and fight well."

"Aye m'lady, thank ye," he replied with keen enthusiasm. "The North remembers."

"The North remembers," she acknowledged. Aberdale bowed deeply to her, closed the door to her solar and left them.

"Take a seat, my lord," Sansa said to Gendry, bringing her face back down to her writing.

Gendry approached the desk and sat at one of the also fine wooden chairs opposite Sansa. For a long time, the only sound that fell on the two was the crackling of the warm fire and the scribbling of Sansa's quill. Her writing suddenly stopped, and she put her quill down, folded the parchment, sealed it with wax then while the wax was still wet, she placed in it the imprint of a direwolf sigil. Sansa finally raised her eyes to meet his.

"Drink?" She asked, motioning to the table of pitchers and goblets.

"No thank you, my lady,"

She gave a subtle nod, "What can I do for you, Lord Baratheon?"

He looked at her, into her blue eyes with her red hair cascading down behind her head. She wore an armoured, black breastplate along with a variant of her usual dark grey dress. Her iron circle pendant at her chest had the thin iron chain connecting the two and the chain wrapped around her neck then fell to her waist, ending at the iron needle pendant. All the iron was polished to a mirror shine. She sat up straight in her chair, and as always, her chin was held up high while she looked at him. Gendry found himself suddenly intimidated by her, he felt as if she were staring right through him, her eyes never broke from him, and he noticed they never blinked. Like she was keenly studying him.

"I uh," he stuttered, breaking his eyes from her. "Arya said I should speak to you."

"Did she?" Sansa asked, though no surprise came from her voice. "Regarding what?"

"She spoke about you when we were… together. She told me how well you rule. Said how much she admires your intelligence."

A slight smile came to Sansa's face.

"I had hoped," he continued, "I could learn a thing or two from you, about being a lord, a ruler."

"You will have advisers and lesser lords to help you," Sansa said, brushing it off.

"But," she added before he could speak. "You don't trust them, because given the circumstances of your raise to lordship and your background, why would they trust you?"

Gendry simply nodded in response.

"It's smart of you, to think that," she continued. "I wouldn't trust you if I were them. You were a nobody blacksmith. Now suddenly the Lord Paramount of the Storm Lands, though with no leadership or ruling experience. None of them know your motives or intentions or intelligence or abilities. They will hear of what happened during the Long Night and hear that you are a great warrior. But as we both know, a great warrior does not make a great ruler. Your father was an example of that. As is my sister."

Gendry looked to her and narrowed his brown eyes.

Sansa saw the look on his face and spoke. "She would rather kill people that weren't up front and honest, nor deal with their politics. She begrudgingly agrees to the cessation of her," Sansa paused on the next word, "talents…  so that we could work together through the politics and protect our family and home. She is a great warrior, I am no longer the only one who knows this now. And with her confidence, quick-thinking, knowledge and skills, she would likely make a great commander or leader of some kind one day. But she is not a lady, nor does she want to be, and she would not make a good ruler."

Gendry pondered on this, and it seems so obvious now. Everything about her reflected it. How stupid he thought he was, to believe he could make her a lady, marry her.

"I know it," he said. "Then what does it take to make a good ruler? How are you so successful? I've heard the people talk about you, they love you, respect you, how?"

"I cared," she said easily.

"That's it?" He asked with disbelief. "What about trusting people? You spoke to me about my lords not trusting me. Or fear, in King's Landing people obeyed Joffrey and now Cersei because they feared them. What about that?"

"No, that's not really it," Sansa gave a short laugh. "Fear has its time and place, but showing your people that you care and receiving their love is more powerful. Any ruler in existence who governed with the majority of fear didn't last long. A ruler that can inspire loyalty and love, long after they are dead is what one should aspire to. If you show your people your love, they will return it tenfold."

Gendry looked at her. She was staring at a banner, focusing her winter blue eyes on the sigil of the direwolf of Stark. She seemed lost in a memory, casting her mind to some time long ago when she was just a child.

"What about trust?" he asked, cutting off her gaze.

Sansa breathed in deep and took a long drink from a goblet of wine on her desk, then looked to him again. "I trust my people," she began, "the commoners, farmers, workers. Provided I keep their lands safe and keep them fed."

"Aye," he interjected. "People are smart, they'll know—"

"A _person_ is smart," Sansa cut him off. " _People_ are dumb, afraid, easy to panic, prone to mob behaviour, especially when they are hungry. And they are unforgiving. They are likely to mass together when they are hysterical, or hungry or unsatisfied with your rule. But, they are just as likely to join together when they are content, or happy, or pleased with your rule. And show you that when you make yourself available to them."

Gendry regarded her a moment, but she continued before he could add anything more.

"I trust my soldiers and guards. Provided I protect their families as best I can, and I don't send our armies to an inevitable death that was preventable. I trust Aberdale the most out of them, that's why I named him in my household guard. He fought for Jon since the Battle of the Bastards, he is honest, speaks his mind, doesn't mix his words, makes him similar to Arya in that behaviour. A personality trait which is refreshing in this kind of game. That was something I used to despise about Arya when we were children, now I adore it and never take it for granted."

"And finally," she continued after a moments pause. "Aberdale is honourable, and that makes him predictable."

"What about your advisers?" Gendry asked, listening to her every word intently.

"Maester Wolkan is bright but timid, he suffered under Ramsay Bolton but is happy with his new service. He only wishes to live. Lord Royce is stalwart and a good friend, but if I were to do something that was not in the interest of the Vale or put them in danger. That trust between us would start to dwindle. Any ruler would need to be aware of this when allied with other Lord Paramount's."

Gendry considered her and what she said. "Who do you have an _unyielding_ trust for?" he inquired of her, though he doubted she would admit this much to him.

But to his surprise, she did.

"Ser Brienne, Bran, Arya and Jon."

"Brienne is sworn to you," Gendry began to gather. "The rest are your family. I have no family."

"No," Sansa said, studying him again. "But you fought for Jon, and he would fight for you. Like our fathers once did for each other. Arya can never be tamed by anybody, our mother and father tried, many great warriors in Westeros and beyond tried, you tried. It all failed, it will never happen. But I know that you have her love, even if she won't admit it. She would defend you and kill for you if needed. Brandon and I have yet to be swayed, but our father and yours were great friends, and the Stormlands were strong allies with the North. They should be again."

Gendry looked to her eyes knowing what she was suggesting, the light of the fire in the hearth flickered in her blue eyes and a thin smile came shaped her lips.

"What about The Queen?" Gendry questioned.

Sansa's lips closed tight and went narrow.

"Which one?" she asked with slight contempt in her voice. "There are quite a few self-proclaimed queens these days."

"Daenerys."

"The Dragon Queen. She gave you your title, and you are loyal to her."

"Yes, I am," Gendry admitted. "And so is the North, Jon was King and he bent the knee to her."

"Yes, Jon bent the knee. But I didn't and my people, my lords, my ladies, they noticed. I don't intend on kneeling and giving up the freedom we all fought many years for."

He looked about the room, his mind hammering with what Lady Sansa was proposing. _So this is politics?_ He truly missed the forge now.

"You want me," he began after composing himself, "to put aside my loyalty to the queen who gave me a lordship, and declare me and the Stormlands allied to you, your family and the North?"

"No," Sansa said, she rose from her chair and made her way over to Gendry, she leaned against the table to his immediate right and towered over him.

"I would like you, to remain loyal to your Queen, but also be loyal and good friends with the Starks, as the Baratheons once were. You can send raven's to me, seeking my advice whenever you need, I will help you, however I can. The Lords of the Stormlands may not know you, but they know the Stark name. They will be far happier with you as their Liege Lord with the North and the Starks as your close allies as they once were. And your lord's and ladyies will be less inclined to betray or mistrust you. Over time you will marry, not to the woman you want, no doubt. But to a beautiful woman none the less who will give you many sons that can be raised and taught the ways in Winterfell, or the Eerie, or Riverrun. Other great Kingdoms allied to me that you will benefit from by having my loyalty. Together, the Vale, the Riverlands, the North and the Stormlands brought down a tyrant king and a Targaryen dynasty three hundred years old. Our alliance was a great force, _and it should be again_."

He did not know what to think, he came asking for advice, and she somehow turned the conversation into one of alliances and family and loyalty. But for a reason he did not know, his mind drifted to Arya and the kiss she left on his lips, the way she threw the daggers when she spoke of the Many-Faced God, and the night they spent together before the dead came. He loved her, even if she would not be with him, he would still love her and be loyal to her and her family, as his father once was.

"I've given you much advice,” Sansa said, breaking him off from his thoughts, her eyes locked on his. “I’ve shown you what love and care can do and how to trust someone and learn how to see what could break or strengthen that trust. You have a lot to learn and I will be there as a friend to help you. But I've told you many things today that I haven't even told my advisers. I told you because of the love and trust my sister has for you, but it would be unfortunate to hear that everything I said to you today found it's way to The Dragon Queen's ears."

"I won't tell her," he said. "The Baratheons and Starks are just allies and friends, as the rest of the realm should be."

"Would be," he corrected himself quickly.

"You're catching on," Sansa said with a smile.

"But what about Daenerys? What if she finds out about our _alliance_?"

"What's she going to do? Burn us for being allies?" Sansa gave a mocking chortle. "She speaks of peace and ending tyranny. Crafting strong alliances is how we foster peace giving the right advice and protecting our homes and our people is how we avoid tyrants. _If_ she becomes Queen and something like our alliance gets on her bad side, then she is a far more disastrous ruler than I had imagined."

" _If_?" Gendry quizzed with a puzzled look. "She has a large army and two dragons. She'll become Queen, and _if_ our allegiance gets on her bad side, we will never have peace."

Sansa smiled wide and regarded him for a moment.

"A lot can happen between now and never," she said, and her smile became a sly grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone is scheming and manipulating and Littlefingering. I really love writing this stuff.


	7. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two warriors travel through the Riverlands.

"Fuckin' cunt."

It burnt when he pissed against the large tree while the sun rose slowly behind him, and the waters of the river rushed before him.

"C' mon yer whore!"

They had taken camp off the King's Road by the side of the Green Fork, the Inn at the Crossroads would be their next stop, and he had to fill up on ale. The little Stark would be paying for it, as she drank half of his, didn't even think to bring her own.

"Why the fuck didn't you bring some from yer big fuckin' castle?" he had said to her.

"Because I was in a bloody rush," she replied, not even looking across to him as they rode side by side on their horses.

"What, to catch up to me?" he asked with half a laugh.

She didn't respond to that, opting to stay quiet for a long period of their journey, which was her way now.

Sandor tied up his breeches after finally finishing his deed and made his way back to their camp, through the thick grass and trees that marked the Riverlands. Arya had already saddled her horse and had half done his by the time he returned, he walked into the camp, eyeing her as she tightened straps on the saddlebags.

"I can saddle my own bloody horse," he said.

"I want to get to King's Landing _before_ Cersei flees from The Dragon Queen. And that will never happen if it takes you that long to take a piss." Arya didn't look up from her job as she chastised him.

Sandor strode over to her and grabbed her wrist, she reeled her arm back and scowled at him.

"I never fuckin' asked you to travel with me," he said. "If I'm taking too long for you, then go on yer own."

She made no reply, but her scowl weakened.

"If ya travel with me, we go at my pace. That white haired bitch won't attack ya precious Cersei until yer brother, and his army have arrived, and two of us—"

"Shh!" Arya cut him off, turning her head towards the trees behind her. She tore her arm out of his grasp and stepped towards whatever she heard.

"Don't ya fuckin' shoosh me," Sandor growled.

"Will you shut up," her voice was low and seething. "People are coming."

He glanced around into the trees trying to find, unsuccessfully, whatever she was hearing. "I don't see any fucking—"

Arya ran off suddenly, leaping off her feet and sprinting towards her horse. Sandor realised she was aiming for her sword belt, with her two blades sitting in their scabbards strapped to her palfrey. She came within ten paces of her horse when she abruptly slid on her feet to a stop as an arrow hissed past her, narrowly missing her head.

"Ahh ta ta ta, no, no missy,"

They came quickly out of the trees and thickets, five men, in a mix mash of tattered leathers and fur, wielding a mix of weapons, two had leather wrapped truncheons another had an old iron dirk and the one who had spoken, that appeared to be their leader, carried a longsword. The last one held a bow taught an arrow lodged ready, aiming at Arya. She took half a step back towards Sandor, raising her right hand as if to tell him not to do what he was thinking of doing. But he did it anyway. Sandor turned, clasped the scabbard tied to his horse and began two draw his sizeable two-handed sword. As the sword tip finally exited its scabbard, Sandor returned to the men, but an arrow flew towards him and struck his right shoulder. He gave a loud growl in pain, and his steed jostled with anxiety behind him.

"Enough!" Arya yelled and faced their leader. "You don't want to do this."

"Ohh," the leader looked to her. He was fat and his voice was a thick, brogue drawl.  "You're a dangerous one, ay. I like a dangerous girl," he clasped his hand over his pants, around his genitals and walked towards Arya as he rubbed them.

"The whole country is at war pretty girl, talk of dragons and queen bitches. None of them cares about us, we can do whatever we fuckin' want."

Three of the five men stood to her front, the leader to her right, another brigand to her left a few feet from her, the archer a quiver at his side, stood several yards away with a direct line of sight on Arya.

"Turn around," she said. "Keep the sun on your left ear and go. We will forget about this."

"I fuckin' won't," Sandor cursed, and he snapped the shaft of the arrow lodged into his shoulder.

"I'll rip that cock sucking archer's head off!" he raised his sword and moved towards the men.

Arya directed her head to face Sandor, and he could not distinguish what she was doing or thinking, but he noticed she bent her legs, readying herself for something.

_What's this little bitch planning._

Her head turned back to brigands in front of her and with impossible speed she leapt off her back foot and made for the archer. Sandor realised what she intended. _S_ _mart girl._

The leader swung his sword at her as she ran. But when she landed her right foot, she jumped off from it, dodging his swing, making his sword hit nothing but air. The archer dislodged an arrow, it came straight for Arya. As she landed on her left foot, she spun on her heel, turning her body clockwise and moving leftward. The arrow flew past her back, she continued running. The man with the truncheon came to her next. He swung his club downwards, she stepped to the side, grabbed his forearm, turned her back to him and in one motion, fell his arm down onto her shoulder blade. 

Screams of agony echoed throughout the tree's, the brigand dropped his club falling to his knees, grasping his arm in pain. Arya turned back, ran towards the archer, he dislodged an arrow. Arya easily moved her head to the left, the arrow swept past. The archer panicked as the wild wolf came closer. He got his arrow lodge though it was too late. Arya Stark pounced on him, she grabbed the taller man by his collar and rode his falling body down to the ground, she pulled an arrow from his quiver and shrieked as she thrust the steelheaded arrow into his neck, blood spurted covering her face, she let out another scream pulling the shaft out. The battle fury that Sandor had felt many times before had taken over Arya. Hearing the enemy approach from behind, she rolled left off corpse of the archer, just when the leader swung his sword. She lay on her back for a split second before lifting her legs, kicking them up, causing her upper body to follow and springing her straight up on her feet.

The leader came to her, and rage filled his approach. There were now only three left of the five. The two other brigands came at her and Sandor strode after them. They heard his approach, turned to him and made to attack. The one with the dirk had his face scared with deep pockmarks, he stepped up first swinging wildly. Sandor took a step back from the wild slashes and grasp his big sword in his hands and when he saw an opening, he gave a yell as he sent his longsword down in a furious strike at the man. But halfway through his arch, he felt a force hit his abdomen causing him to stumble, his sword swing completely missing its target. The other brigand, a thin gnarly man, struck his truncheon into Sandor's ribs but his immense size was too much and he was able to absorb most of the pain. Sandor punched the hilt of his sword up into the thin man's chest, and he reeled back from the impact. Then a sharp, searing pain came from Sandor's left arm. The dirk had stabbed into him, but as the pockmarked man tried to remove it, Sandor yelled in a fury, grabbed the man by the throat and headbutted him with such force that he blacked out on the spot. Sandor grasped the hilt of the dirk and made to remove it. A wailing came as the thin man had recovered and prepared to attack, but just as he approached, the tip of a Valyrian dagger exposed itself through the centre of the man's forehead, and he dropped dead instantly.

Arya, stood a distance away, her right arm outstretched after the action, her sword Needle, in her left hand.

"You're getting old," she said.

"Fuck off," Sandor replied, the corners of her lips slightly raised at his words. 

Sandor forced the dirk out of his arm, approached the man he had headbutted unconscious and shoved the blade into his skull.

"Cunt," he said, leaving the dirk sticking in the man's head.

He looked over to where Arya fought the fat leader. He was on his knees, a few yards away from where the archer died. But the leader was not alive, as the arrow Arya had stolen from the archer, was lodged into his skull, it went up through his chin, into his brain. He sat motionless, almost like he was peaceful.

"Please, no!" A crying voice seized Sandor's attention.

He eyed over to see Arya sauntering towards the man whose arm she broke. He lay on the ground pushing his feet back futility, trying to retreat from her. The little Stark towered over him, as he pleaded for his life.

"Please, I'm sorry, I don't want to die!" he wailed.

"Valar morghulis," Arya replied with an icy voice and she thrust Needle into the man's neck. His being gave out as he choked on the blood welling in his throat, Arya stared at him, retreating the thin blade from her target, its steel dripping red of another life the little Stark had taken.

* * *

“Sit still,"

Arya stood next to him as he sat on the log of a fallen tree. Sandor could feel the heat of the flaming stick as she brought it closer to his open wound. He tried to focus his mind on something else like she advised, but he could not help the feeling of the coming heat and fire, and pain. His heart began to race, and he could feel his hands start to shake.

"Stop, wait a minute," He looked to the girl's deep-set eyes, she parted back a moment, but then pushed the flaming end of the stick into his wound, suddenly and without notice. He yelled wildly, curses and screams echoed through the trees, he launched Arya away effortlessly, cursing all the while. She fell onto her back, dropping the flaming stick.

"I told you to wait, ya fucking cunt!" he roared at her.

She rose to her feet, "I thought you said you could handle it."

He growled a curse to her again and made to check the arrow wound she had burnt. The skin around it had been burnt off and the hole sealed with the fire, he opened his waterskin that rested in his lap and washed the dirt and blood from it, gritting his teeth from the pain. Arya came up to his left side, a small needle and thread in her hands.

"The fuck you doing?" he barked at her.

"Gimme your water,"

He looked at her incredulously, before ceasing and reached to pick the skin of water. Gritting his teeth again from more pain, she poured the water into the dagger wound on his left arm and began to sow it up. They became quiet. Birds sang as the morning sun rose in the east, a light breeze filled the air and flies began to land on the corpses of those the two warriors had killed.

"Did they have anything on em?" Sandor asked.

"The fat one with the longsword had a few crowns, that's it."

"His sword any good?"

"No, shit smithin'."

"Not as good as yer lovers ay?" he taunted. 

She stabbed the threading needle harshly into his cut, Sandor cursed in pain and glared at her, she glared back, her lips tight in subtle irritation at him. She returned her eyes to his wound, and he faced the dead again, regarding their bodies, and the stink of death began to fill the air.

"Yer brother, Jon. Came an spoke to me the night before we left."

"What?" she asked suddenly, shooting her head up to face him. "Why?"

"Ha, thought that might change yer mood."

"Why?" Arya demanded.

"He was drunk. The fool wanted to thank me for helping you, yer sister too."

He turned to face Arya. Her eyes were wide, the irritation she once had, left.

"You told him about Beric that night?" Sandor asked

She nodded lightly.

"And about our travels together, years ago?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I suppose yer sister told him what I did in King's Landing, just like she told you right? I'd rather you little bitches never said anything."

"What, afraid people might hear something good about you?" she teased, her lips forming a smirk.

She turned her sight back down to his wound to finish the sowing. He watched this girl who had become a warrior, carefully tie off the thread at the top of the cut, pull out her dagger and slice off the excess threading. She hadn't grown much since they were last together in the Riverlands, though she wore far more mental weight around these days, she tried to hide it, but he saw through it all. She splashed water over the now sealed cut and cleaned off the blood that had surfaced from the sowing.

"The night Jon spoke to me," Sandor said, looking to her. "He was drunk from drinking with you, wasn't he?"

A light of happiness filled Arya's face and small smile crept across her lips; a pleasant memory had come to her, "Aye," she said.

"That's good," Sandor replied earnestly, rolling down the sleeve of the tunic as Arya finished. "Let's get the fuck out of here before these dead shits smell worse."

* * *

Stranger whinnied as Sandor tightened the reins around his mouth, he placed a large hand on the horses head and gently patted to settle the steed. He and his travelling companion, Ayra, had a well-rested stay at the Inn at the Crossroads, a place they each had a shared history with. It was here where he killed her friend Mycah on who had been accused of harming Prince Joffrey.

_"Not my place to question princes."_

It was here Sansa Stark's direwolf had died because of the actions of Arya's own. And it was here that Sandor and Arya fought Polliver and his Lannister soldiers, Arya had recovered her Needle and took her revenge on Polliver. This place had much more history than that, especially for Arya's family. The two did not want to stay here any longer than they needed. A high pitched whistle caught Sandor's attention, and he cut his glance over to the noise. Arya had returned from inside the inn carrying two large leather skins, she kept one for herself and threw him the other.

"Cost me the rest of my gold," she said when he caught it.

She walked over to her saddled horse next to him and began to unloosen a strap for her skin.

"Ya fuckin' drank half of mine, yer lucky I don't take that one off you as well."

"You're too old and slow," she derided.

With her back turned to him, Sandor made to reach for her leather skin. But she quickly moved to the side and her hand latched onto his arm, she looked at him smiling.

"And predictable."

He pulled his arm back out of her grasp."Little smartass."

The sound of hooves trotting slowly along the King's Road filled the breeze as they sat upon their horses cantering gingerly. Arya on his left, passed Sandor a stick of jerky, he reached over, took it from her and bit roughly into the hardened meat, tearing his head back to rip it apart. He looked back to Arya, she was washing down her food with her ale, wiped the excess from her mouth with her arm, the leather of her doublet scraping across the skin of her chin and mouth, and she let out a loud burp once she finished.

"Ha!" Sandor exhaled and shook his head slightly, smiling.

"What?" She returned, looking at him. "Not Ladylike?"

He didn't answer, but his sudden curiosity brought his thoughts elsewhere. "Yer direwolf, Nin or whatever the fuck you named it. Didn't ya lose her around here? Know what happened to her?"

"I didn't lose _her_ and _her_ name isNymeria. She found me when I returned to Westeros," Arya brought her view back to the road.

"Didn't eat you alive?"

"Her wolf pack almost did."

"She leads a pack now? That mean you'll lead a pack? Like all ya fuckin' Starks go on about," Sandor chastised.

"I doubt it," Arya said, ignoring his mocking. "I'm no ruler."

"Leading soldiers, or an army, or commanding a force of killers and whore-mongers is different from ruling a Kingdom of stinking peasant cunts and their shitty lords and ladies," he spat out a piece of jerky from his mouth, over his right side onto the ground.

Arya swung her eyes to his with a fowl look on her face, "What would you know about leading?"

"Nothin', but I know a leader when I see one."

He stared at her when he spoke, her dark eyes looking back into his, then she narrowed them slightly before cutting her head back in front of her and stopping her horse abruptly.

"What is it?" Sandor asked, stopping as well and looking ahead, faintly seeing something coming up the road.

"Riders galloping. Looks like," she paused, leaning her head forward and squinting her eyes. "A wagon, it's gilded, knights flank it."

She placed a hand on Needle's hilt.

"Banners?" Sandor asked, reaching over his left, to also grasp the hilt of his sword strapped in the saddle.

"Can't see any."

"Could be Lannisters, or Golden Company," he began to draw his sword, but Arya placed a hand over his arm to stop him.

"No need," she said, keeping her hand on him. "They're friendly."

Then he saw the white falcon and moon crescent across the deep blue field of the banners that began to appear. Over two dozen Knights of the Vale galloped in chorus around the gilded wagon in the centre of their mass. Sandor returned his sword and rested his hand on his lap, Arya took another drink from her skin of ale, and the two sat upon their horses motionlessly while the Knights approached.

Sandor could see the round shields of the knights, the sigil of House Arryn painted on them, bouncing in tandem with the horse's stride. The procession came within ten yards of the two warriors before stopping. The knights parted as the gilded wagon strode forward, the curtain that shrouded its occupant, parted by a small hand and the figure of a boy appeared.

He had dark black hair, that moped over his head and went down to his eyes, his face was lean and rat-like, and he wore such an arrogance that made Sandor hate him already. The boy jumped from the carriage, stumbling slightly at the landing, his light blue coat and doublet bristling in the air after his effort. He walked towards them, taking off his gloves in the process, a smug smile came over his face.

"I'm Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale," his voice was high pitched and whined. 

"You must be Arya Stark," he said, pointing to her, "and Sandor Clegane." He pointed to Sandor, Robin's smug smile widened as he looked to him and Sandor resisted every temptation to wallop the fools teeth out.

"Lady Sansa's letter described you both accurately. She's always had a way with people," Robin's voice became lighter and trailed off when he spoke of Sansa. He looked up to the sky as if in longing.

Arya turned to face Sandor a moment, he regarded her gaze, and a tiny smirk came across her lips.

"How can we help you, my lord?" she asked, returning to Robin Arryn.

"Oh uh, yes," he shook his head lightly to force whatever thoughts out of his mind, then produced two rolled up parchments from inside his doublet.

"Sansa sent a raven asking if my knights would bring this parchment to you," he held up one of the parchments, marked for Arya.

"Of course," he continued. "I know Sansa didn't want to trouble me with going, but uncle Petyr and Sansa told me I need to go out more, this is the furthest out of the Vale I have been, you know?"

Arya smiled at him, then outstretched her hand, "May I have the parchment, my lord?"

He gently walked forward to her mare and placed the parchment into Arya's hand, she quickly took it and noticed the wax direwolf seal of House Stark had been broken.

"This is marked for me, yet the seal is broken," her voice was cutting as she spoke to Robin. "Don't trust my sister?"

"No, I-I do," he stuttered.

Sandor noticed Arya was not paying any attention to Robin, but had begun reading the parchment. Lord Arryn straightened his back and tried to speak with authority.

"Uncle Petyr said to me, always be aware and read every scroll from a raven that I can, and he told me of a saying, 'the quill is mightier than the sword.’ and I—"

"Whoever said that never felt the might of a sword."  Arya interrupted, staring into the stupid boy's eyes as she rolled the parchment up in her hands.

"I slit Petyr Baelish's throat with his own dagger, no quill or parchment saved him," she said.

Sandor saw Robin clench his fist, and a wave of red anger filled his face.

"He was my good uncle! Your sister learnt a lot from him! She likes to use words!" Robin's voice was higher pitched, far higher than normal.

"Littlefinger was a conniving piece of shit that betrayed our family and got what he deserved," Arya replied coolly, "Sansa fights her way, I fight my way. And she has the entire North and it's lords and ladies loyal to her, to protect her and support her. Littlefinger had himself and no one else."

"Uncle Petyr was good! I-I don't like the way you talk, I can take you both back my castle and have you thrown out the moon door!" Robin was breathing heavily now, staring hatred at Arya.

"Yer know who ya fuckin' speaking to boy?" Sandor barked. "This is Arya fuckin' Stark, of Winterfell. Yer sweet _Lady Sansa's_ sister. Arya fought against the dead with _your_ knights who swore to fight for Sansa. Arya saved the entire realm while you cowered in yer fuckin' castle. Did Lady Sansa tell you about that in her letters?"

Robin breathed quickly and heavily, "Yes, but—"

"Then shut the fuck up and get out of our way. You do anything to Arya and Sansa will tear you apart boy."

A knight came walking up to Robin and place a gloved hand on the boy's shoulder, "Come, my lord, its due time for the leeches."

Robin jerked off the knight's hand, but made to follow him, Sandor put his heels into his steed and rode forward between the Knights of the Vale, Arya came up beside him, and as the knights went to their rear, Arya spoke in half a whisper.

"You've always had a way with words,"

"Pff" he let out an incredulous sound but smiled nonetheless. "What's it say?"

Arya handed him the rolled up parchment marked for;

_Arya Stark of Winterfell._

He unfurled it and began to read as their horses trotted along.

_Green and gold fell, the black and red wooden horses killed, Naath lost its head. The last on your list will marked off along with others you cannot name._

_Be safe, Underfoot._

_Sansa Stark. Lady of Winterfell. Lady Paramount of the North._

The message made no sense to Sandor. “Why would yer sister make it coded?”

“Raven’s get shot down, Cersei has spies. Sansa trust Lord Royce but not Robin Arryn,” Arya assured. “We are still _allied_ to Daenerys, and it is best that Cersei doesn’t know you and I are heading for King’s Landing.”

Sandor Clegane nodded in understanding. "Smart of her, but it seems like that stupid little Arryn prick adores Sansa, she has him wrapped around her fingers.”

“Yes, but as you said. He is a stupid little prick. Can't trust information to someone like that.”

"The fuck does the letter actually mean?" Sandor asked, handing it back to Arya.

"'Green and gold is Rhaegal the dragon," Arya began to explain. "Sansa said he fell, shot from the sky I take it by one of Cersei's scorpions. He is probably dead or severely wounded. Wooden horses are what the Dothraki call ships, its the Targaryen fleet, I’d say surprised attacked by Euron Greyjoy's fleet and destroyed. Naath is Daenerys' adviser Missandei _of Naath,_ probably captured in that attack, then executed by Cersei."

"And 'the last on yer list'. Sansa's talking about Cersei and yer list of names right?" Sandor ventured.

"Yes," Arya agreed, "the Dragon Queen will want revenge. I believe Sansa thinks she will go straight to the Red Keep and burn it down along with Cersei, regardless of the casualties. I think so too."

"If the white-haired bitch is smart, she will wait until yer brother's army is at the gates," Sandor said.

Arya shook her head, "She's more impetuous, impulsive and fiery than she is smart. We should pick up our pace."

"What's _Underfoot_?" Sandor asked.

Arya stayed quite a moment before finally answering. "When we were children in Winterfell, our servants and guards used to call me Arya Underfoot because of how I used to sneak into places I shouldn't have been in."

Sandor made a mocking noise, "What a st—"

"Stupid fuckin' name?" Arya chided, though she regarded him with a wide smile. "I knew you would say that."

Arya forced her heels into her mare, Sandor followed, and their horses picked up speed. The dirt of the road flicking behind them in a gust as they galloped towards King's Landing.


	8. Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys burns hotter as she dwells on the past and the slow night before the attack on King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a small chapter, I will probably be doing another one this week that will be quite large.  
> I was never actually going to do a Daenerys chapter because I wasn't sure I could get her mindset right or her "madness".
> 
> Let me know what you think.

“The next time you fail me, will be the last time you fail me.”

She saw the fear in Tyrion’s eyes before he turned, leaving Dragonstone’s Throne Room.

_Fear my Lord Hand is all I have. The Lords and Ladies of Westeros won’t love me, so I will make them fear me._

She sat on the stone throne, mulling over the recent event, the losses, the betrayals, the killing. The hatred scorched through her bones, flaring her nerves. She felt the anger within her rise to the surface, her hand gripping the arm of the throne tightened, her fingers began to turn red, and she felt the pain in them come through.

 _Sansa Stark,_  she thought. Her teeth were gritting. If she did not see that red-haired northern conniver kneeling to her once this was all over, she would gladly watch that red hair, the pretty little head it was attached to, and all that followed burn to a crisp and Jon Snow could do nothing about it. Though her sister might, Arya had proven to be resourceful and dangerous, and she clearly didn’t have the regard for honour that Jon had. If Dany killed Sansa, Arya would take her revenge, and with her skills, Daenerys was sure that nothing could stop her wrath, dragon or not. _Sansa and Arya would have to kneel together or burn together._

She rose to her feet suddenly and began to walk down the stone steps from the throne. _The Starks can wait,_  she thought to herself, trying her best to calm her anger. Cersei was her next target, Cersei Lannister would not receive any of her mercy. Daenerys strode through Dragonstone castle, her Unsullied guard taking up the rear. The dark stone wall faded past her as her mind was burning with all that had happened. Everything seemed to go awry when she got to Westeros. It wasn’t supposed to be that way, she was supposed to return, destroy the tyrant and the people would rejoice. But everything changed when Jon Snow appeared, and the revelation of the Night King and his army. She had helped the Northerners as Jon wished if it weren’t for her, her armies, her dragons, they would have been overwhelmed much sooner, and Arya Stark would never have defeated the Night King. Yet they all rejoiced behind her back to see the "Dragon Queen" go, especially Sansa Stark. Instead of getting the Iron Throne and a strong alliance with a subservient North, she lost her children, her armies, the trust of her advisers and her friends. She got nothing in return, only an incredibly uneasy “alliance” with the North to the great disdain of its lords and ladies and their leader, 'The Lady Paramount of the North.'

_We will see how much the North loves Sansa when their homes are burning because she refused to kneel._

They reached the door that led out into the green grassy hills of Dragonstone; cold night air rushed in as the door opened. She regarded her Unsullied and commanded them to stay put. She didn’t need a guard when she was around her child. Drogon was found resting at the peek, his black and red wings wrapped around him, his long tail curled nearby him on the ground. He heard his mother approach and flicked both of large, lava eyes at her slightly raising his head and making a deep purring sound. When she reached him, she placed her small hand between his eyes and stroked down his snout, repeating the motion several times as he purred.

“Tomorrow we will make them pay, for your brother, for Missandei,” Daenerys said to her scaled child.

“We will burn Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, all his men and then him,” as she continued to speak, her voice became rougher as the anger rose, and Drogon could feel it, he stirred lifting his head, his eyes looking to her. Daenerys had stopped the motions of patting Drogon, instead just resting her hand on his snout.

“We will burn Cersei and whoever else defies us. Then I will take what is mine.”

Drogon lifted his long neck, pointing his head up to the stars and gave a roar in agreement, filling the night's dark sky with his proud thunder. He lowered back down and once again rested his head on his wing. Daenerys sat on the grass next to him, leaning her tired body against his head. He sounded a rumbling purr when he felt her touch again.

They were there for a long time, peaceful and both quiet aside from Drogon’s deep breaths. Daenerys looked up to the stars, thinking of Jorah, Missandei, Khal Drogo, Irri, Rakharo, Ser Barristan, even her unborn child Rhaego. She felt a wet tear fall down her cheek as she remembered all those she loved now gone into the dirt, hoping that they were at peace, wherever they may be. She remembered Jorah, striving for her in the fighting pits of Meereen, then defending her at Winterfell, taking blade strikes everywhere, yet rising to his feet again and again. She felt her eyes well with water, thinking of when she held him as his life finally parted this realm. If only she could have held Missandei, she thought. _I never got to say goodbye to her_. More tears trickled from her eyes, feeling her sadness Drogon wrapped his wing around her, and she could feel his warmth instantly. 

She lay her head against his scaled body, placing her right hand on his cheek, reminiscing more on Missandei. She remembered the bronzed skinned Missandei of Naath, her large curls and beautiful face. She remembered the day she met her and the day she freed her. She cherished every day she spent with her closest friend, and how she would braid Dany’s hair. She tried to do it herself, but it would never be as good as what Missandei did. She reflected on the talks they would have, more of the personal ones, about love, men, women and everything in between, significant or not. Of all the things Dany missed the most, it was just talking to Missandei that was most eminent, hearing her pleasant voice and calming words and radiant smile.

A long yawn came from her, and her wet eyes began to shut before she caught them, Drogon, sensing her tiredness, shifted his wing closer to her and hummed gently.

“No Drogon,” Daenerys said, lifting herself. 

The wing retreated, and Drogon shifted his head. 

“I can’t sleep out here, I must get some good rest, so should you. It will be a long day for both of us tomorrow.”

She gave his scaled forehead a long kiss before making her way back down the hillside, returning to the castle.

The fire in her solar roared, filling the room with heat, she turned as the two Unsullied guards took their positions, flanking the entrance to the door, she ordered them not to bother her, and she reached for the iron handle and closed the heavy wooden door shut, turning the latch, so it locked. Her solar was a large room, Daenerys stood in front of the door, on the opposite wall, directly in front of her was one large window, the night light shining through. A great featherbed, with linen sheets, layered with fur, was against the wall to Daenerys right, next to that held an elegant dark wood double wardrobe. On her left was the hearth, built into the dark stone wall, and next to that, a small table upon which rested several goblets and a pitcher of wine.

Daenerys took a small drink of the wine, helping to calm herself. Then began to change into her undergarments, before taking her place on the bed, sleep came to her quickly.

* * *

_She glided out of her bed, the flames in the hearth were out, and the door still locked shut. But Cersei Lannister stood by the window. A goblet of wine in her hand, a smug smile across her face that followed her pretty Lannister green eyes, shining brighter than firelight and her golden short cut hair fluttering gently in the breeze._

_“You will never be Queen.” the vision of Cersei said, and she took a long drink from her goblet, the dark red liquid filled her mouth, spilled over her lips and ran down her chin._

_Daenerys strode over to her, fury afire filling her words “You will burn, as will all who follow you,” a spark in the hearth took hold. “You will die a painful death for killing Missandei!”_

_“You want to burn me, you’ll have to burn the Red Keep and all the innocents in it,” Cersei replied, all smugness._

_“I will burn the entire city if I have to!”_

_Embers lit more wood, the fire strengthened._

_“And be the Queen of Ashes?” Cersei let out a loud, sarcastic laugh. “The Dragon Bitch is done, Sansa Stark will likely be a Queen before you ever are.”_

_The fire roared its rage, and it began to seep out and burn the stone of the hearth. Daenerys took Cersei by the throat and forced her against the wall, but when Cersei’s back clashed against the stone, she disappeared, and Daenerys fell against the cold surface. The silver goblet that was once in Cersei’s hand clanged onto the ground._

_“The Queen of Ashes has a nice ring to it.”_

_Daenerys turned on the sudden words, Sansa Stark stood, looking out the window, her plaited red hair swayed in the wind. She wore her black studded armour and grey Stark dress, her iron chain and pendant around her neck. The goblet that was once on the floor now resided in her hand, she lifted it to her mouth, contemplating a drink. But decided not to and placed the goblet on the sill of the window and turned to face Daenerys._

_"Then again, so does King Snow. Or King Aegon, I suppose." A smug smirk followed her words._

_Sansa's luminous blue eyes stared daggers at Dany, and the red-haired Stark girl towered over her, taller than she remembered. Yet she wanted to scream at the red bitch all the same, have Drogon's flames fall upon Lady Stark and watch the red cinder._

_“When I am done with Cersei, I will fly Drogon back to Winterfell and deal with you,” Daenerys said with hatred. The stone floor began burning under the rage of the fire, but she could not feel the heat._

_“Mhm,” Sansa paced slowly across the window, her hands clasped to each other behind her back._

_“What would Jon think about that?” she said, “do you think my sister will stand by and let you?”_

_Daenerys walked in front of her, the moonlight shimmering through the window, brightly over Sansa’s shoulders._

_“I’m beginning to care less about what Jon thinks, and your sister does not scare me!”_

_A loud bang came from behind Dany, she spun around, facing the door to her solar, it was closed shut, and no presence betrayed the sound. Though the flames that once filled the room had now retreated to the hearth, only a small blaze rested in the wood. The stones where the fire once was, remained undamaged, unburnt._

_“Don’t be afraid.”_

_A small yet commanding voice from behind her, she turned, Sansa had disappeared and in her place stood Arya Stark. Though she was different from the other visions of Cersei and Sansa, she looked too real. Daenerys suddenly started to realise the oddity of what was happening. She looked down to her hands, but could not fully see their shape, she looked to the hearth, and though a small fire was burning there was no crackling sound, she looked along the stone walls, noticed the table, her door, her bed, but not her dark wood wardrobe, and everything that she could see, had a strong blur to it, stifling their details._

_She faced the almost real Arya Stark. Dany gazed into her dark eyes, and she thought she could see all the lives that the icy Stark had taken herself, suddenly she felt afraid._

_“Am I dreaming?” she asked. “Or is this some poison the Faceless Men taught you to make?”_

_“Maybe,” Arya replied, “Or maybe this is just all your paranoia and hatred making you think so.”_

_“You left Winterfell,” Daenerys ventured, ignoring the last comment. “You snuck onto our ship, you’ve poisoned me somehow. Varys wasn’t successful in poisoning me, but I assume someone like you, knows methods most people don’t.”_

_“The stories you’ve heard about me shaped your thoughts,” Arya said “I’ve felt the things you have, Daenerys. The anger, hatred, revenge. Helplessness.”_

_Arya took a small noiseless step, making her even closer to Dany, she looked into her eyes, and she continued._

_“The things I’ve done, the vengeance I’ve taken on people who betrayed my family or wronged me. I know what it’s like to have a power that you didn’t have before, and the feeling of using it on your enemies.”_

_Quite fell, Arya Stark continued her stare. Dany contemplated her a long moment, Arya’s shoulder length dark hair blew gently, she had it tied up the same as Jon had his. A thin smile marked her face as Daenerys observed her, yet the moonlight that was so bright before was dull, casting an ominous silhouette around Arya._

_“Then what do you think I should do?” Dany asked._

_The girl shrugged. "Doesn't matter what I think, or what anyone else thinks," her head slightly tilted as the next words came from her._

_“You’re a conqueror Daenerys Stormborn,” the voice of an old friend echoed in Arya’s statement._

_Dany looked at Arya incredulously, she could see the thin smile widen, but her small body began to distort into something, no, someone familiar. Her frame shifted, another body took her place before it disappeared quickly, her face changed many times. On the face that once was Arya, Daenerys saw Jorah, Missandei, then Arya’s own face again, Khal Drogo, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Torgo Nudho, Cersei, Arya, Daario Naharis, Rhaego, Tyrion, Varys then Arya once more._

_A haze filled the air, Dany suddenly felt cold and a panic took hold. The nightmare of Arya turned back to the window, picked up the goblet that rested on its sill and held it forward to Daenerys. The world swayed around her. She took the goblet from the small Stark; the liquid was dark red, she dipped a finger in and held it up, she noticed the liquid had a thickness to it. The sight unsettled Daenerys, but her hand was forced into her mouth, she choked and pushed back. Arya being responsible for forcing Dany to taste the liquid, removed her grip from Dany's hand. Daenerys could sense the warm liquid on her tongue and the feeling of it trickling down her chin, the drink tasted, of… nothing._

_Whomever the person Arya actually was, stepped to Daenerys’ side._

_“Valar morghulis,” she said in half a whisper and began to walk away._

_Dany turned, watching her drift towards the door._

_“All men must die,” Dany called out to the wolf girl with many faces, and she stopped, her hand gripping the door handle._

_“But we are not men.” Daenerys finished. She gave herself a small smile, remembering the same words she told Missandei when she first met her._

_“No, Your Grace,” Arya agreed, she turned the handle, opening the door, then half rotated her body showing her face, the face of Arya Stark, her lips forming a smile. The faint sound of bells followed her and began ringing in Dany’s mind._

_The Stark girls face became dangerous. Her large eyes staring directly into Daenerys', no blink or falter came from them. The bells sounded louder._

_“But," the girl spoke, with an eerie confidence, "Anyone can be killed.”_

* * *

The morning light glared through the windows of her solar waking up in a cold sweat, a mark of her dream. She looked to the sill of the window, no goblet rested there, the table with the wine pitcher and goblets remained untouched, though the fire in the hearth was no longer burning. But when she cast her eyes to the door, her heart quickened and her stomach sunk. 

The heavy wooden door was open wide, she grabbed the furs around her and called to her Unsullied guards in Valyrian.

Two Unsullied quickly approached and entered her solar.

“Why was my door open?” Daenerys demanded. “I locked it last night. Why was it opened?”

Her words became thick with anger forcing one of her Unsullied to answer.

“One of the men may have opened it to check on you but forgot to close it.”

“Unlocked it from the outside, to check on me. When I specifically ordered not to be disturbed?” Daenerys said with irritation.

Her guard made no reply, which only flared her rage at the negligence.

“If this ever happens again, I will burn you. Leave me.” 

The black armoured soldiers marched out of the chamber, closing the door. She laid in her bed a moment, dwelling on her dream and what, if anything, it may have meant. _No, It meant nothing. It was just a dream. But my dreams, they come true._ She thought to herself, she remembered when she said that very thing to the Spice King in Qarth, and she could not shake the feeling of Arya’s presence, all the words she spoke and the open door. She shook her head violently and reminded herself that she was a dragon; dragons would not fear wolves. She would deal with them once she dealt with Cersei.

Dany threw the furs off her and arose from her bed, she approached the dark wooden wardrobe, withdrew a black corseted wardress with a faint dragonscale texture, black leather boots and a flowing deep red half-cape that would run across her shoulder and flow down her back, it would be attached to an iron chain that would go about her chest, fastening the cape at her shoulder, with a three-headed dragon clasp.

As she dressed, she thought of the dream, she thought of Missandei, she thought of burning Cersei, getting her revenge, she took warmth in the thought of dragonfire engulfing the Red Keep. She thought of finally sitting upon the Iron Throne, the world finally free of tyrants and cowards and connivers and sneaks. Jon would be by her side, he would see the right path; he would love her, properly love her, as they once did. She yearned for his touch, his kiss, his love.

She could dwell on him no longer, however. Daenerys Targaryen stood ready in her solar, the fire in her essence ablaze, dressed for war. She smiled at the sight of Drogon, flying into view of her window, and his roar of dominance over the land. Mother and child of Old Valyria were both ready, for fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to go for a bit of foreshadowing in the dream and play with things like the fire in the hearth being linked to Daenerys mood/temperament during the dream.
> 
> As well as a sort of subconscious battle Dany was having.


	9. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing burns, Arya steps up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I am still following the show plot, there is quite a bit that happens in this chapter that is exceedingly different from the show that may come up later. So consider this the point where my fan-fic starts to have a more original plot.

The crying roar of a dragon tore apart the skies. Arya lifted her dark eyes to the source of the noise, gazing upon the crumbling Red Keep of King's Landing. She sat upon the white palfrey that carried her from the burning city, the mare let out a nervous whimper and stepped anxiously away from the sound of the dragon. Leaning over of the mane of the horse, gently patting and stroking her neck, Arya whispered into her ear.

“Shh, girl. It’s okay.”

The horse calmed slightly at her touch, her anxious side-stepping ceased, but the mare still flicked its ears nervously. After several moments, Drogon launched himself from Throne Room of the Red Keep, flying east. Arya looked up and noticed the claws of the dragons left leg wrapped around something, but he was far too high to see exactly what that something was. Arya felt terrible for lying to the horse; she was far from okay herself. Her mind raced anxiously at the thought of Jon inside King’s Landing, practically alone. She knew what Daenerys was like, The Dragon Queen would likely have been inside the Throne Room, relishing in her victory; including taking the Iron Throne... finally. Jon may very well have been with her and Drogon wouldn’t just leave Daenerys like that, he flew east for some reason and didn’t stop. Arya sensed a sinking feeling her stomach as she feared for Jon. She was very rarely afraid for herself or her own safety, but her family's safety was something else that she couldn't help but be overwrought about, and she was confused that things were not adding up. Then suddenly, she realised how dark the day had become.

As light snow fell on the south, burning bodies filled the air with their stench of death, a smell familiar to Arya. She was only just outside the northern walls of King’s Landing, straddled upon the palfrey amongst the destroyed stone, burning wood and dead, cindering Golden Company soldiers. She wanted to ride through it all, back into the city and find Jon. She could sneak to wherever he was and get him out. Though suddenly, she heard a squawk from behind her and looked the noise, she watched as a black raven, without concern, flew down and landed on the nape of her mare, the white horse made no movements against the bird but became as calm as if she was in a beautiful green field, with the sun and blue sky above her, not outside a dragon-torn crumbled city, under dark skies and covered in snow and ash. 

Arya doubted that a raven could have been taught to find and fly to a specific person. But when she looked to the dark bird, she noticed on its leg, attached with thin twine, a small rolled parchment. The raven stared at her and gave a squawk. She undid the twine and removed the parchment.

“Dark wings, dark words,” Arya muttered her mother's words to herself, unrolled the parchment and looked down.

It wasn’t Sansa, Arya knew that much. Sansa’s hand-writing was small, thin and elegant. This writing, while neat, was large and bold. She began to read it;

_You are right to worry for Jon. He is unsafe._

Arya’s face contorted into a grimace of confusion, she looked at the raven, it stared back at her with its beady dark eyes. She regarded it a moment, narrowing her eyes at the bird, putting things together amidst her mind, then continued reading the parchment;

_Do not go into the city alone. You will not get to him. Unsullied and Dothraki surround him. Grey Worm intends on killing him, not thinking of the consequences. Take the army. Go to the Plaza at the base of the Red Keep._

Arya looked back to the raven; it squawked at her, then in a split second, it’s beady eyes went milky white, before going back to deep black. The raven abruptly shook itself violently, then took flight. It’s flying was erratic and looked as if the raven was out of wits. Eventually, dark wings took a flight path and the raven headed north. Arya watched carefully as the raven flew back home, when it began to go out of sight, she drew her eyes down to the Northern armies encampment north of King’s Landings.

She furrowed her thick eyebrows as she looked upon the camp, _Take the army? Take the bloody army?_ She wanted to ride to Jon more than ever, but she believed Bran words were true, he was looking out for her, and she was to look out for Jon, as Sansa looked out for the North and their family.

She threw the parchment into a nearby burning pile of wood, after watching it quickly take flame, she kicked her heels into the mare and rode forth towards the Northerner's encampment a mile away from King’s Landings burnt and crumbled walls. She rode amongst burnt corpses of Golden Company soldiers, destroyed walls and burning wood from the scorpions that turned out to be useless against a dragon and his rider who were prepared. 

She came close to the camp and spotted Ser Davos, Jon’s closest adviser. His blue-grey tunic and trousers were covered in ash and blood, his old face and grey, short cut hair had splotches of white ash and dust. He was standing on his own, just outside of the encampment, looking towards the city. He studied her as she approached, then realising who she was, his face wore a look of shock.

“Lady Arya?” he exclaimed, “What are you doing here? Fuck, you look like you’ve been through all the Seven Hells!”

He wasn’t far off the truth. Thanks to Daenerys and Drogon, Arya’s brown leather doublet had become a mix of pale ash and dark soot from trying to escape dragonfire and crumbling stone buildings. Her body was bruised from the trampling of civilians and the impact of massive stone. Her face was covered in blood, a token of the rubble falling on top of her, cutting open her skull. The blood went down her neck, over her leather doublet, and beneath it. She could still feel the now cold blood stained on her cotton tunic underneath her armour. She was in the thick of the burning of King’s Landing, trying to escape with the civilians, even trying to help, though failing. She understood Davos’ reaction, being covered in blood, ash, dust, cuts and wounds she did look like she stepped out of some type of hell. Though compared to what she had witnessed this day in King’s Landing, she knew she got off easy and was lucky to get out alive. 

“Something is wrong,” she said, stopping the horse before him.

“This whole shit day is wrong. Are you okay?” he asked.

“Jon isn’t safe. We need to go back into the city, with the army.”

“Why do you say that?” He said, looking quizzically at her. “He’s with The Queen.”

“No, he isn’t. You saw Drogon fly east? Something has happened, and Jon’s in danger. I know it.”

“How do you know that? Maybe she—”

“Davos!” Arya interrupted, “Jon is in danger. Trust me.”

Davos looked at her with his head cocked. “Thousands of years of Starks and the last four of you have abilities and share a bond I will never bloody understand. Aye, I trust you. What would you have us do? We bring the army into the King’s Landing, and it could start another war, we don’t want another war.”

“ _You_ _don’t_. Gather the army, lead them into the city.”

“Ha!” Davos exclaimed sarcastically, “Good luck with that. They won’t follow me.”

“Why not? You’re Jon’s adviser.” She said, growing frustrated.

“Aye, his adviser, but I’m a Southerner, and Jon isn’t here. They won’t follow my own command to go back into that shit hole.” Davos turned and motioned his head towards King’s Landing.

Arya sighed and shook her head, “Then who will they follow?” She gazed at the still burning city.

“Jon and, or Sansa. Without hesitation. But neither of them are here. So one of the other northern lords, if those stubborn shits can decide amongst themselves who will command.”

“Fine, go gather them.”

“There is someone else they will follow, without hesitation,” he said, turning back to her.

She peered down to him, glowering.

“No,” she said coldly.

“You’re the highest ranking person here, a Stark, a bloody war hero.”

“I’m not Jon, I don’t have any battle experience,” she replied, annoyance filling her voice.

“Yes you do,” Davos said, “You fought in the Long Night, I saw you destroy those dead bastards, none of them could touch you. Your brother Robb Stark didn’t have any field experience, and he never lost a bleedin’ battle.”

“Robb had training!” she cut in, her voice raised. “Robb was taught by father and Ser Rodrick. I wasn’t.”

Davos stepped closer to her, “You were at the battle-planning for the war against the dead, and you were at the battle-planning for this war against Cersei. You’re smart, and you would have picked up on tactics quickly, just like you picked up on sword fighting tactics easily.”

When Arya made no response, Davos resumed.

“And let me tell you, reading about battle tactics in books and being taught them, can never prepare you for the real thing. I was a bloody up-jumped smuggler when King Stannis made me lead the attack on King’s Landing all those years ago, not a lick of battle experience, and we almost took the city. Now you are in a hard situation, but sometimes there is no better way to learn.”

Arya sat on her mare, silently looking to the city as the smoke rose higher.

“I know you don’t want it, my lady,” Davos continued, “but these lords will bicker amongst themselves, they won’t choose a commander, they will waste time while you worry over Jon.”

“We are wasting time right now,” she said contemptuously, without looking to him. “Go gather the northern lords, Ser Davos,”

Davos stayed quite a moment before receding to her, “Aye,” 

She heard him walk back towards the camp, snow crunching beneath his feet. Arya slid off her palfrey and began stroking the coat around the horses long neck, she whinnied her approval of the touch, and Arya let herself have a small smile.

“You’re a good girl aren’t you,” Arya said, patting the horse. “I ought to give you a name, ay girl.”

She neighed in response, and Arya rested her tired head against the horse's neck and ran her hand down the long snout.

“Where did you come from, I wonder.”

Arya stood patting the mare as the snow continued to fall on them. Although she could still feel the heat on her left side, from almost getting burnt by dragonfire, she felt herself getting cold. As the chill came through her bones, Davos returned with the major Lords.

They gathered in before her, she faced north, looking at them, and Arya recognised them all. Lord Cerwyn, Lord Manderly, Lord Magnar, Lord Ryder, Lord Reed, the young Lord Tallhart and Lord Royce of the Vale, Sansa’s strongest ally outside the North. 

“Lady Arya, this is a pleasant surprise. We did not think you joined in the battle,” Manderly said.

“I didn’t,” she replied frankly.

Arya and Davos explained what was happening, what they wanted and the possibility of it leading to a battle for Jon, the lords readily agreed to go back into the city for him, but they did not quickly agree on a commander. She watched in disbelief and growing frustration as the lords argued amongst themselves.

“I won’t follow a pup like Tallhart!” Manderly bellowed.

“Ten fucking winters will pass before I let a Manderly lead my men!” Lord Ryder asserted.

They continued their bickering, Arya turned her face south and watched as the palfrey was picking at the grass peeking through the snow, the loud voices of the Northmen seeped into Arya’s ears, she heard them curse, give stupid reasons for not following one or the other. She heard the yell of Manderly, the wail of Magnar, the high pitched complaining from Tallhart. They _were_ wasting time, and her mind fretted over her brother stuck in the city.

“Jon,” she whispered to herself, looking to the Red Keep in the southern distance.

The white palfrey lifted its head and ambled towards her, nodding enthusiastically at Arya and snorting as she came close. Arya smiled at the horse and ran her hands across its long face, then grasping onto the reins, she pulled herself up onto it and turned back facing the lords,  Arya cast her eyes upon them, her gaze stopped at Lord Reed, who had been staring at her, a smiling and knowing look on his face. 

She frowned at him, his face was small and round, with a long nose and little, pale green beady eyes and a grizzled grey beard cut close along his sturdy jaw. The small and thin old man wore a mish-mash of leathers and fur armour, underneath was a tattered dark green tunic and trousers, his short dark brown hair was unkempt, and grey hairs were visible, Arya realised he was about the same age her father would have been. He had neglected the call to fight in the Long Night, excusing the Crannogmen by saying they would defend the North at their home in The Neck. Sansa grew annoyed at this but Bran, who never defended the Glovers for not answering the call, strangely defended the Reeds, he said the Crannogmen would make no difference in the war against the dead and to leave them be and not treat them as traitors. However Howland Reed answered the call to fight Cersei, joining up with Jon’s army as they passed through The Neck, his force was only small, but they were fierce. 

Now he was here, staring and smiling at Arya as if he knew her. Though she had never met him in her life, only heard the stories her father would tell about him, they were old friends and fought in many wars together, the Lords of the Neck has long been strong allies to house Stark, but their suppressed actions during the War of the Five Kings, and now their sudden reappearance and interest bothered Arya, but her thoughts were cut off by the booming voice of Lord Magnar.

“I believe I should command, Lady Sansa rose me to Lord of—”

“Pah!” Manderly spat.

“You questioning The Lady of Winterfell, Manderly?” Magnar accused, eyeing him.

“Of course not,” Manderly responded nervously, “Aye, she made you a Lord. That doesn’t mean we should follow an up-jumped shit heel, who—”

He stopped his speech when he saw the look of utter wrath and hell in Arya’s eyes staring at him.

“Say another word,” she challenged him.

He looked to the ground, apprehensively and retreated from her.

“If you can’t choose someone to lead, then none of you will,” she said at the lords with disdain in her voice.

She looked to Bronze Yon Royce.

“Can I count on the support of the Knights of the Vale?” she asked.

“Without question.” The thick, towering man said.

Arya nodded her head, “You will take them as well as Manderly’s men in a flank. We will descend on the plaza of the Red Keep. That is where Jon is being held by the Unsullied. Dothraki will be there too, but they won’t be as effective. There are two entrances. We will split the army, go through each one and surround them, force them to hand Jon over.”

The lords all looked around to each other, but it was Magnar who spoke.

“Lady Arya,” he began, “We would follow you to the ends of the earth, have no doubt. But these are Unsullied. It will be a hard fight.”

Arya took her eyes from Magnar to Davos.

“No better way to learn,” she said. Davos gave a thin smile. “Lord Reed.”

She looked to him, and it seemed that the man never took his eyes off her, a thin smile ran across his face.

“Yes,” he said.

“You and my father were good friends, he told us about you and the Crannogmen. I’m happy to see you join the North once more, pity you weren’t there for the Long Night.”

“We had our reasons,” his smile didn’t falter.

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Arya said. “Father told me that the Crannogmen are great archers, spearmen and warriors, and they can handle difficult terrain. That true?”

“Aye.”

“I would like to speak to them before we march,”

“Aye,” he agreed, still smiling.

“We have ravens?” she asked, looking over the other lords.

“Yes, my lady, we do,” Lord Tallhart replied in his thin voice.

“Bring me parchment and quill, my lord. Davos you will be by my side when we move out. The rest of you return to your men and prepare them to march.”

“As you command, my lady,” Manderly agreed.

One by one, the lords all agreed.

“My last command,” Arya said before the lords left, “is for everyone to stop calling me a fuckin’ lady.”

* * *

 

Steel armour was melted to the skin of dead Lannister soldiers, the Northern army marched by half-burnt buildings and completely toppled stone and brick, many of which had people underneath. Black crisp bodies of men, women and children littered the streets of King’s Landing. Those that weren’t burnt had died from the sword or spear. Some still had unrecovered, Dothraki arakh’s, Unsullied spears _and_ Northern swords protruding from their corpses. Arya looked on in disgust at the sight, riding her horse leading the main army.

“They attacked civilians?” Arya asked Davos, who was walking beside her.

“Aye,” he replied, with sadness. “But that’s war, Arya.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

They reached the entrance to the plaza, Arya spurred her horse into a quick trot as they began to fill the large open square, covered in snow and ash, the perimeter of the plaza was lined with burnt and half-destroyed buildings on both sides that lead to the broad stairs leading to the Red Keep. Northerners ran behind her, drawing their swords, to her right Northmen and Knights of the Vale entered, lead by Lord Royce, flanking the Unsullied who took their phalanx stance of knees bent, shield held across their chest and spear facing forward. 

The Northerners ran down each side of the plaza, swords, axe, hammer at the front, archers with bow ready at the back. Their flanking forced the Unsullied into a three-man thick semi-circle to face them. The rest cluttered behind, near the long stairs leading to the Red Keep, in amongst them was the small force of Dothraki who now would be useless in such a situation, just as Arya had hoped. She sat on her palfrey, Davos beside her, at the head of the army facing the front of the Unsullied semi-circle and in the centre, she saw Jon, his eye bruised, and blood ran from his nose, he was on his feet, an Unsullied soldier holding his hands behind his back. Three feet away, another soldier carried his sword belt with Longclaw in its scabbard. Next to Jon was Grey Worm; revenge filled his face.

“Let Jon go,” Arya said, looking at Grey Worm.

“No!” he responded. “He killed The Queen. He will die for it.”

“Let’s talk about this friends,” Davos said, “nobody needs to die, we can—”

“You harm Jon,” Arya cut him off, speaking to Grey Worm. “You and all your men die.”

“We are Unsullied. Your army will be defeated.”

“Arya,” Jon interjected with a weak voice, “don’t do—”

Grey Worm threw a fist into Jon’s face, and he lurched to the side, falling on his knees and coughing. The Unsullied behind losing his grip on Jon’s hands.

“You will not say a thing!” Grey Worm spat.

Arya drew Needle at the sight, her left hand grasped tightly in anger around the hilt of the thin blade. Her horse snorted and motioned with nerves, preparing itself.

“Davos,” Arya said, making her voice quiet enough as so only he could hear her. “Once I breach the Unsullied have the armies attack at once and whatever happens, keep the archers loosing volleys of arrows. No matter what.”

“Arya, we don’t need to do this. There has to be another way other than more bloodshed.”

“Grey Worm will kill Jon, we have to show him that we will not allow it and show him our armies are just as capable as his,” she looked down at Davos. “No matter what, understand?”

“Aye, and you’re just gonna breach their shield-wall?”

“Just so,” Arya answered, she took her gaze back to the Unsullied. “Archers! Nock!”

At her bellowed command, the Northern archers withdrew their arrows and lodged them into their bows, in response Grey Worm shouted a command in Valyrian, and the Unsullied all lifted their shields in unison, their spears still facing forward.

“Draw!” she shouted, she heard the sound of steel and leather on lifting arms and the familiar sound of bowstrings being pulled back taut.

“Loose!”

A twang sounded in unison, arrows filled the sky, she kicked her heels into her mare, and it lurched forward into a gallop, Arya lowered herself and gripped tightly onto the reins as the palfrey picked up speed. The front line of Unsullied spearmen shifted their shields to their front, expecting a charge from the other Northerners that didn’t come. Arrows flew past her and made contact with the Unsullied, they took the arrows on their shields and remained steady, only a few fell. 

But then seconds later, many began to fall, several sections of Unsullied along their line toppled forwards, arrows or three-pronged spears lodged in their backs, Unsullied closest to the perimeter even had netting thrown on top of them, tangling them in groups. Many shifted their view, witnessing what Arya had planned. At her orders, Crannogmen climbed the half-burnt buildings, and whatever stable rooftops they could that lined the perimeter of the plaza before her armies had arrived. The small men and women of the swamps threw their spears and loosed their arrows into the backs the Unsullied that faced Arya causing the lines to begin to disintegrate, and then, the Northmen on the ground charged.

As the horse came within a few feet of the Unsullied line, Arya lept her feet onto its back and pulled hard on the reins, the horse slide to a stop and Arya jumped off its back into a gap of the Unsullied, she rolled as she landed and drew Dark Sister in her right hand. With both her blades ready, she prepared to strike forward to Jon.

Northmen hit the line of Unsullied; steel clanged against shield and blade or spear. Unsullied that weren’t at the front attacked Arya. She dodged a spear thrust at her left, a volley of Northern arrows came down, she rolled forward under the sweeping strike from an Unsullied, as she whirled into him she pushed Dark Sister up into his groin. An arrow stuck a man attacking her left, she rose to her feet and ran for Jon. Dothraki began to fire arrows into the Crannogmen above them, many missed the small agile people, and they fired back. Arya ran forward seeing Jon struggling with an Unsullied. One stepped in front of her path and with quick succession, jabbed his spear forward at her, she quickly moved her body right, it  swept left towards her, and she ducked, then stepped left as she correctly guessed the spear would come at her last location, with the extra split second of time that correct guess allowed her. She wrapped her right arm around the Unsullied’s spear shaft and heaved it forward, he came lurching towards her, and she stuck Needle between his helm and breastplate. The soldier fell to the floor, clawing at his now reddening neck.

She turned back to Jon, and then a sudden impact hit her left, a shield had smashed into her arm, causing Needle to fly from her hand. She turned at the man who hit her, but a spear was already only a few inches of her body, then it suddenly hurtled away, the Unsullied wielding it being knocked to the ground, by Jon. He had tackled the slave soldier, and in the tussle, on the ground, Jon managed to grab the soldiers own bronze dagger from his belt and stabbed it into the open eye sockets of his helm. A volley of arrows came hurtling down, Arya ran to Jon and kicked him off the Unsullied then cowered down herself. Arrows began falling, sticking in the snow-covered dirt beside her and lodging into the Unsullied that Jon was just on top off. He looked up to her, and she looked to him, she noticed Jon was unarmed.

Northmen were now in amongst them, breaching the Unsullied lines. Arya noticed Aberdale, Sansa’s guard, leading several men to take position around Jon, protecting him. She looked back through the commotion, finding the Unsullied who still had Longclaw, she got to her feet and sprinted towards him, ducking spears and dodging shield strikes. When she had a clear view, she flipped Dark Sister in her hand, catching it by the blade and threw it at the Unsullied. The Valyrian dagger pierced cleanly through his helm, and he fell to the ground, Longclaw crashing to the snow.

Now unarmed, and seeing a spear strike coming towards her. Arya dropped and slid along the ground at the last few feet to Jon’s blade. She pulled Longclaw out its scabbard and held it in both hands. The Valyrian longsword felt uncomfortable in her palms, the heavy blade made her feel clumsy, and the unfamiliar stance of using two hands felt awkward, but it was necessary for her to hold the heavier weapon.

Another spear came at her front, she used Longclaw to push the spear aside, the Unsullied, swung the spear back around, Arya ducked, he jabbed, she side-stepped, he swung again, she bent and was forced to step back, Longclaw was making her slower, but when the Unsullied spear came swinging to her left, she lifted Longclaw and clashed the blade into the spear, the heavy blade cut the wooden shaft easily in two, something Arya’s small weapons wouldn’t be able to do. She stepped forward, and with great effort, swept the blade upward into the chest of the Unsullied, the Valyrian steel pierced his armour and cut deeply into him.

Arya turned and saw Jon fighting an Unsullied, he had picked up Needle and was trying to get closer the soldier. The dainty blade looked foreign in his larger hands, but when he dodged a spear thrust, he lurched forward and stuck the thin blade between the Unsullied’s chest piece and helm, his neck began splurting with blood. Jon turned when his opponent fell, seeing Arya with Longclaw he ran to her. She removed Dark Sister from the skull of the Unsullied, sheathed it and ran towards Jon. When they came within a few feet, still moving towards each other, Jon tossed Needle from his right hand to Arya’s left. And she threw Longclaw to him, they each caught their blades and Arya quickly unsheathed Dark Sister once again. The Starks spun and put their backs against each other.

Fewer Northern soldiers were now amongst them, and the Unsullied shield-wall had regathered its strength and pushed back the Northmen. Crannogmen were now too occupied with Dothraki arrows to be any more effective against the Unsullied line, not to mention the turtle-like shield wall the Unsullied lines now used, defending them from attacks from above and back.

Spears thrust came at Jon and Arya; they dodged and parried together. Arya felt Jon’s body moving behind her. A spear came to her; she stepped to the side then forward narrowing the distance. The spearman pushed his shield ahead intending to hit her, but she moved quickly to his side and thrust Dark Sister into his ribs, he fell, and she turned at the yelping sound Jon made. He had been hit with a shield bash and fell to one knee, and a spearman prepared to strike him. Arya sprinted and put her foot on Jon’s back, using him as a platform she launched herself into the air, whirling overhead the Unsullied attempting to strike Jon, in the midst of the air, Ayra swiftly, in one clean motion, thrust Needle into the eye socket of the soldier and removed the blade.

As soon as Arya landed on both her feet in front of Jon, a shield bashed the side of her head, incredibly hard. She stumbled to her side, sudden throbbing pain hit her head, and a daze clouded her vision and her mind, then, she felt a searing pain in her thigh, it shot through her, and it hurt more than anything she had felt before, the pain came again and worse, and Arya wailed in agony.

* * *

 

**Jon**

Longclaw fell from his hands when he heard Arya wail and saw her drop to the ground, the two small blades falling from her hands. He ran to her, collapsed to his knees, turned her over and cradled her in his arms. Unsullied spears were pointing towards him, and the Northern soldiers in the centre of the semi-circle had stopped fighting at the sight of Arya and Jon. As he looked at Arya who wore a face of severe pain, he heard the shouts of someone above him, a Northmen yelling and then he heard other Northmen on the ground, and Davos too. The northern army had lost the advantage, many Unsullied laid dead, but many more Northmen perished, and now his sister lies suffering in his arms.

She gave a menacing groan of misery, her face contorted in anger, discomfort and pain.

“Ahh, cunt!” she groaned between her teeth, with frustration. Then her large eyes met Jon’s, sorrow overcame them.

Her upper body rested on Jon as he kneeled, his right forearm underneath her head, holding her up and his left hand holding her at the waist. Blood seeped from the large spear wound in her right thigh, the spear was thrust deep and pulled out violently, making the wound, and pain worse. Jon saw tears begin to form in Arya’s eyes, his own began welling up at the sight.

“I’m sorry, big brother,” she said, a tear fell down her cheek. 

“What,” he replied, “you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I was supposed to look out for you; I failed. Everyone I try to protect… dies.”

More tears fell from her eyes, falling to the ground and wetting the snow. Jon’s own began to seep from his eyes, and he could feel the trail of tears streaming down his cheek, he took his left hand and cupped her head.

“No, don’t say that. You protected me here. You protected us all in Winterfell. We’re all alive because of you.” he smiled at her, and her lips began to form a faint smile, but it disappeared quickly, her pupils started to constrict, and her breathing became shallow.

“Help!” Jon called, looking up to the Unsullied around him. “Help her!”

Grey Worm had appeared amongst them, facing the Northern armies who had now retreated from the Unsullied shield-wall. Davos and Howland Reed stood at the front.

“Let us take her before she bleeds out!” Davos pleaded

“No.” Grey Worm responded curtly. “She killed my men.”

“And you killed hers,” Reed interceeded. “They are Starks, a family thousands of years old, and they are both war heroes. You let her die here, and Lady Sansa will stop at nothing to destroy you.”

“I am not afraid!”

“Brave of you,” Reed replied. “That’s what the Lannisters said, and the Freys, and the Boltons. And the Targaryens."

“Sansa is coming south,” Davos cut in, “she’s bringing more armies and who knows who else she has convinced to join her. Let me tell you with all the shit that has happened today it won’t take much for her to get most of Westeros to fight against you.” 

Howland Reed stepped forward, “Give us Arya, the rest of our men, and take Jon but don’t kill him. We can sort out his justice when Sansa arrives.”

It was Davos’ turn to speak, “The Unsullied aren’t as strong as they were, neither are your numbers and you don’t have reinforcements anymore, you are all that's left.”

Grey Worm looked around, uncertain then his eyes met Jon’s.

“Grey Worm, please.” Jon pleaded.

Grey Worm cast his eyes over Arya, then looked back to the Northmen. “We are not afraid of another war, but taking her is pointless, she will not live.”

“You don’t  _know_ that,” Lord Reed spat.

Jon felt a frail hand on his right arm.

“Jon,” Arya said, in a small, weak voice.

He looked down to her. Her face had turned pale, her eyelids half closed, her breathing was short and strained, she struggled to speak, her voice came out feeble.

“Jon…”

Arya’s hand fell from Jon’s arm, her eyes rolled back, and her eyelids closed. Her head turned to one side, and her body fell limp in Jon’s grasp.

“Arya!” Jon yelled, he brushed the hair out of her eyes and turned her head back to face him. She remained unresponsive.

“No, please, no, no. Arya, Arya!”

The tears fell from Jon’s eyes as the pain in his heart coursed through him, worse than any sword cut or stab, worse than a thousand trampling horses. He pressed his head against hers, and his tears dropped on her cheek. He brushed her head as if consoling her. Then the sound of footsteps came.

“My lord,” someone had said.

Jon lifted his head and saw Aberdale, holding out his bloodstained hands to take Arya, besides him were a few more Northern soldiers, Davos and Howland Reed.

“She has lost a shit lot of blood,” Davos cursed.

“Take this and wrap her wound tightly,” Reed said, handing a thick linen bandage to a soldier. “Bring her horse!”

They took Arya from Jon’s grasped and laid her flat, wrapping her bleeding thigh. A beautiful white mare was lead through the crowd and without command or force, the horse collapsed its legs besides Arya’s body, laying itself down, allowing them to haul her easily onto the palfreys back. The horse rose once Arya was safely on it, and Jon felt hands on him, forcing him up onto his legs, the same hands grabbed his wrist and pulled them behind his back. The Northmen began to leave, but Howland Reed stepped up to Jon, looking at him knowingly.

“She is strong; she may live, son.”

Howland placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder and patted him thoughtfully, before turning and leaving. Jon looked to Arya, for some reason, the words of Melisandre echoed in his thoughts 

_“A destiny you and her share.”_

Jon watched as his little sister, half dead, was carried away from him. Uncertain if she was to live, more tears fell. 

_Stick em’ with the pointy end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya, there is another character POV inside a character POV chapter. I did it cause a Jon one alone would be too small for the next chapter and I felt like it was an interesting way to view what was happening and more emotional.


	10. Howland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howland remembers. Despair falls upon the Northmen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter before the long ones likely this weekend.

In her, he saw Lyanna Stark. The hair and long face, with the same thick eyebrows and deep-set eyes, the same smile, and wild, dark northern beauty. The same wild she-wolf spirit and tomboyish personality. The same fight in her and the same exceptional riding skill. Howland sat on the wooden stool in the dark tent, the morning sun peering through its gaps, he watched over Arya as she lay on the bedding, stirring, fighting back the terrible fever that had taken hold. She had fever dreams constantly, the nights filled with her noises of pain, the days she was delirious, barely conscious. Her forehead and hair covered in a sweat, her washed light blue tunic and brown breeches wore patches from all the sweat her body was secreting, her wound had been cleaned, burnt, bandaged and every day they put on a new bandages, but it was all they could do, now they had only to wait, give her whatever they could to help with the pain. And hope she lived.

It had been three days since she fell in the battle and her condition had not improved by any noticeable means, Howland could still precisely hear the howling pain that resounded through the plaza when she was stabbed, and he vividly remembered the sight of Jon Snow, Arya in his arms as she bled out and lost consciousness. Jon’s emotional cry’s of “Arya” as his sister faded, brought to Howland memories of when he found Ned, kneeling over his dying sister, and his cry’s of “Lyanna,” as she left the world and in her wake left a child, a prince that would become a bastard whom Ned cradled in his arms. Many years ago, in the Tower of Joy.

_Howland held his hand across his bloodied chest as he walked into the sand dusted tower, his footsteps echoing on the sandstone, the hot Dornish sun cut through its windows shedding light on the dead rose and blood filled bedding, the legendary sword ‘Dawn’ rested against the wooden frame of the bed, with a young, dark-haired woman lying on it. Her brother kneeling beside her cradling something._

_"Lyanna? No Lyanna!"_

_Howland could hear the wheezing of Lyanna as she lay on her back, blood and black, dead winter roses covered her. Her life fading._

_“Ned,” he said, “what happened?”_

_The young Ned Stark made no immediate reply, his face full of tears as he swept his gaze from Howland to Lyanna then to the baby in his arms. Howland ran to his side he took Lyanna’s hand, she was limp and covered in blood._

_"Lyanna?"_

_She did not respond, the wheezing had stopped, her eyes, lifeless, staring at Ned. Lyanna was motionless, the she-wolf, gone._

_Howland let his tear fall as the Stark girl lay dead before him, he cast his eyes to the child that Ned cradled, the boy had a Stark face and Stark eyes though he was not crying like other newborns did, but was quiet, solemn, almost melancholy._

_“He is her child,” Ned looked at Lyanna. “Her’s and Rhaegar Targaryen’s.”_

_“She died in her birthing bed,” Howland said._

_Ned nodded, tears falling from his sad eyes. “It was not the boy's fault. You mustn’t tell anyone about this Howland, “ he turned his long face to Howland, despair came to him. “Promise me...”_

Now Howland watched another young dark-haired Stark woman lying in her blood. _Arya has to live. She must. Ned lives on through her and Jon, just as Lyanna does. Sweet, wild Lyanna. She deserved a better fate._ Howland thought, sitting in the dark tent. He saw the resemblance that Jon and Arya had to each other and the resemblance they both had to Lyanna Stark.

Daylight came through brighter, as the tent was opened up by one of Arya’s guards and Meera Reed walked in, carrying a small leather pouch. Her untamed curly hair was flowing behind her as she stepped through the tent.

“I got them, father, anything change with her?” she asked.

“No, same as she has been for the last three days,” Howland said.

“Right,” Meera threw the leather pouch on the ground, sat down next to Arya’s bed and began removing herbs she had gathered, tearing them apart and placing them in a bowl. “Why are we even doing this, the fever hasn’t gone, she won’t live.”

Howland raised his chin, eyeing her, “You shouldn’t say that.”

“I’ll say what I want.”

“You're still mad at Bran,” Howland ventured, still eyeing his daughter. “You shouldn’t take that out on his sisters.”

“Why shouldn’t I?!” she spat, throwing down the herbs in rage. “That bitch Sansa hardly even noticed me when we returned to Winterfell, didn’t thank me, didn’t offer help or condolences in any way for what Jojen, and Osha, and Rickon, and Hodor, and Summer did for her brother. And her!”

She pointed an angry finger at Arya lying on the bed, “She ordered us to fight Unsullied, I saw our men die from their spears thrown at us and the Dothraki arrows that _she_ never mentioned. I saw the Northmen falling on Unsullied spears, and I saw her charge at their wall like it was a game! All for what? Her bastard brother? She got overwhelmed and over her head and now she is suffering the consequences of her arrogance, and we are here cleaning it up!”

“She is the commander and the Starks are our liege lords, and we will remain loyal to them.” Howland made his usually timid voice, deep and authoritative. “This is war; people die, battle plans succeed or fail; what was she supposed to do? Let them kill her brother. Her decisions led to her breaking an Unsullied shield-wall, yes the battle was lost, but her actions gave the Unsullied commander pause, and she saved Jon Snow’s life. A man loved by the North, and with the stories coming out about Arya during the Long Night, we all owe her a lot more than our loyalty.”

“I—”

“Would you have not done the same were it Jojen?” Howland asked, interrupting her.

Meera looked at him with her light eyes but made no response. Instead, she picked up the herbs she threw and went back to work in quiet. The entrance to the tent opened up again, and Ser Davos walked in, he was carrying a knife in his good left hand and a thick tree branch in the other. One end of the branch was shaved smooth by his knife and shaped into a sort of handle. Davos was working the knife down the shaft of the branch as he walked up beside the bed. Arya began to groan in pain, and her head shook back and forth.

Davos stopped his carving and looked at her. “How is she?”.

“No different, Ser,” Howland answered.

“What a bloody fuckin’ mess.”

“Yes.”

Arya’s groans of pain increased in loudness, and she shook her head violently as unintelligible words came from her. Her body began darting, and her cries ripped through the tent.

“What’s happening? Another fever dream?” Concern filled Davos’ face as he spoke.

“Maybe, but this is much worse,” Howland said, falling to his knees by the bed and hold Arya down.

Meera ran to the other side of the bed with the small bowl, now full of a liquid smelling of grass and herbs. “Ser, I need you to hold her.”

Davos kneeled beside Meera and did his best to hold Arya’s arm and her head as Meera began pouring the herb mixture into her mouth, though most of it spilled out over the clothing and bedding.

“What is that, Milk of the Poppy?” Davos said to Meera.

“No, better. Arya, drink. This will help with the pain. That’s it.” Meera’s calming words settled Arya long enough for the drink to go down her throat. She gently stroked up and down Arya’s neck, “now swallow.. That’s it..”

Arya’s hand fell limp in Howland’s own and he heard her breathing begin to slow down, and it became so weak it was barely perceptible. Meera noticed it too and her eyes widened, shock befell her.

“What did you put in the mixture?” Howland demanded of Meera.

“The same as always, and I made sure to wash the leaves as mother did.”

“Then what is happening?”

“I don’t know father!”

“Perhaps it’s just the fever, bringing the end..” Davos offered.

Howland cast his eyes to the Onion Knight, “Fever’s don’t end like this.”

“I wasn’t talking about the fever’s end.”

* * *

 

The day went slower than usual, the encampment of the Northern armies grew dim as the news of Arya’s worsening condition spread around. Dark clouds marked the evening skies above, though no winter snow fell. Howland mosied through the camp, chewing on a piece of beef jerky. He thought of Jon and how he must be feeling, worried sick for his sister’s life, Howland believed. It was evident to him the two were close. He thought how the news of her death would be given to Jon, and who would give it. _What about Lady Sansa?_ He thought, would she take her vengeance? Would she be understanding, or would she start another war for the death of her sister at the hands of the Unsullied? He did not know if he was, to be honest with himself. But he did know, that if it came to war, half of Westeros would back her if it were to claim vengeance for the death of the Hero of Winterfell.

He heard the sudden ruckus of noise on the eastern side of the camp and made his way towards it, as he approached several lordly looking men were dismounting from horses, one of whom, who seemed to be their leader, was speaking to Ser Davos. A burly young man with short cut black hair and vibrant blue eyes. Davos noticed Howland approaching and turned to face him.

“Lord Reed, this is Lord Gendry Baratheon, of Storm’s End. Gendry, this is Lord Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch.”

Davos stepped to the side and let an open hand point to the lord. Gendry smiled wide and outstretched his hand. Howland took it in his and felt the strength of the young lord as they shook.

“I hear you fought well during the Long Night, my lord,” Howland said.

“Call me, Gendry. And I did what I could.”

“Creating a mountain of corpses beneath you is quite something, Gendry.” Howland offered him a warm smile.

“Bloody hells, word travels quickly,” Gendry said

“Men like to talk and sing of heroic deeds, especially Northmen.” Howland motioned his head towards the other storm lords. “You brought armies to support us?”

Gendry’s eyes shifted nervously, and he stepped anxiously before he spoke, “I wouldn’t count on that my lords. But, speaking of heroes… Where’s Arya? I heard she was commanding the forces here.”

It was Davos’ turn to glance his eyes about anxiously, but then placed a hand on Gendry’s shoulder and spoke to him warmly. “We had a battle with the Unsullied that Arya led... She... fell. It doesn’t look good, son.”

Howland watched as Gendry’s eyes sank, and he could feel the twisting pain that must have begun coursing through the young lord.

“Can I…” Gendry swallowed deep, “can I see her?”

“Aye, this way.”

Davos lead them to the healer's tents, striding through the wounded and sick and northern Maesters doing their best to aid the fallen. Finally reaching Arya’s tent, two guards stood at the entrance, one stepped to the side, though the other stood looking at Davos.

“Will she be okay, Ser?” The guard said.

“I…” Davos sighed deeply, “I don’t know, Aberdale.”

The guard stepped to the side, lowering his gaze to the ground, but Howland could see the look of dejection on his face as he walked by, into the tent. They saw Arya, lying on the bed on her back, her body limp, her head tilted towards the entrance. Meera squatted before her. She turned as she heard the three enter, Howland saw the grief on her face.

"I was just... making sure she was comfortable," Meera said

Gendry ignored her and strode to the bed, fell on his knees beside Meera and grabbed Arya’s hands.

"Arya?" He whispered to the motionless Stark.

Howland came to the other side of Gendry and placed a hand on his shoulder. He could hear the struggled breathing of Arya, and every difficult breath was joined by wheezing, a sound he knew and did not like.

“You know her?”

Gendry said nothing, only nodded as tears began falling.

“He loves her,” Meera said, her gaze fixed on Gendry.

“More than anything,” he replied through tears. “She’ll be okay. She can’t die. She won't die.”

Meera looked to her father, and sadness wounded her eyes. Howland slowly blinked and gave her a slight nod.

“My lord,” she said, placing her hand on Gendry's other shoulder. “Her life is fading, we’ve done all we could. I don’t think she will make it through the night…”

“No… You’re wrong,” Gendry sobbed, his head shaking side to side. “I know her. She is strong. She’ll fight it.”

Howland tightened his grip on Gendry’s shoulder, then patted it gently as he thought to himself. _What was Bran’s plan for us, to help Arya so that she could save Jon and then die herself? Did he know she would die like this? Was there no other way?_

He released his hand from Gendry, as he felt the Lord of the Stormlands heartbreak with despair. Howland did not want to believe what he was about to say, but there was little hope.

"I’m sorry, son. It seems the she-wolf is gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	11. The Dreaming Girl

Her paws padded gently on the snow-covered grass of the dense forest on the raised land, and each step accompanied the unexplainable pain in her right hind thigh. The early moonlight pierced through the trees and the dark clouds, the river raged to her right, and the taste of fresh blood filled her mouth. She turned and watched as her pack devoured on the large deer she had killed. The much smaller wolves barked and growled at each other, fighting over the carcass. Others in the pack lay resting or cleaning themselves. Some had returned with their own fresh kill, albeit on much smaller deer or other animals of the woods.

She shifted back and made her way down to the river, treading carefully around the jagged rocks alongside the flowing stream, ignoring the pain from her leg. Waters roared southward over fallen trees and large rocks in the river, she swept her view right, to the north, and saw nothing but dark clouds and snow, and the faint sight of two twin castles. She then took her gaze south, and with her large, precise eyes, she saw more snow and trees, but in the distance, leagues away, she observed the burning of hundreds of camp-fires and the large city beyond them that now lay a smoking ruin. She looked into the waters at her feet, and she saw herself in the reflection, her large head and long snout, fanged sharp teeth and grey and white fur. The reflection broke as her tongue began lapping up the water, washing the blood from her mouth. She felt the presence of someone else, a human she was bonded too, that she had seen not so long ago in this very land. The vision of another wolf came to her at the same time, one shorter than her, with white fur and deep red eyes and a solemn look. She lost her other sibling wolves, but knowing her brother wolf was still alive warmed her heart while she continued to lap up the river waters.

The sound of hooves and rolling wood filled her ears, burying her thoughts, the scent of the horses and men accompanied them. She jolted back up the riverside to her pack and barked her command. The wolves parted from the carcasses, woke from their sleep or halted the playing and followed their leader as she ran to the path that man travelled. She barked a command again, and her wolf pack darted into the trees and bushes, hiding from the coming procession. She hid herself to the side of the path, lowering her legs and laying her belly on the grass, in a thicket near a large tree and noticed the riders coming her way.

There were no more procession of armies who wore the red and gold, nor were there any men who wore the dull brown leathers that used to live in the twin castles over the river. So who did this army belong too? The she-wolf thought as she watched the multitude that came from the north, with their horses and wagons coming into clear view. She observed men in steel and leather riding horses or walking by foot, carrying swords and shield, spears and bows. Large horses pulling loaded wagons along the dirt path, snorted with frustration as their rider whipped the reins at them.

“Once we get to a wider clearing we will make camp, this forest is too dense.”

She heard the voice of a rider leading the army and cast her eyes towards it. She saw a woman, thin and tall. Wearing a dark grey dress that flowed down over the saddle of her horse, a black breastplate covered her chest, and her plaited red hair flowed in the eastern wind. A shinning iron, circular pendant hung below her neck, and a chain ran through it and down her chest, a needle pendant hung at the end of the chain. Flanking the red-haired woman, was a small man with short black hair, a sword on his side and a big, blonde haired woman, outfitted in heavy, deep blue, steel armour, a large gold-hilted sword on her side.

“As you say, my lady,” the big woman said.

The she-wolf pounced out of the thicket onto the dirt path in front of the procession. Her large eyes fixed on the red-haired woman that led the army, and her eyes returned the look. The massive wolf pack followed, two of the wolves flanked the she-wolf, the rest ran up the sides of the cavalcade surrounding them. The army of wolves bared their teeth, growled and barked, spreading fear amongst men.

“It’s a wolf pack!” A man shouted, “There are hundreds of them!”

The horses in the procession shifted and whinnied nervously; many men began to lose control of the horses as they tried to step away from the wolves.

“That’s a bloody direwolf!” a soldier at the front said, his voice shaking with fear. He drew his sword and others in the army followed, steel sung as they drew their weapons.

“Stop!” the red-haired woman shouted. “Stow your weapons.” 

The army of men looked about nervously; none of them put their weapons away. Even the big woman with the gold sword still had hers drawn and looked around at the wolf pack with anxious eyes.

“Do as I command!” the red-haired woman said, 

“My lady…” the small man to her side responded.

“Now!” she commanded, and the army began to ascent, slowly sheathing their swords or lowering their bows.

The red-haired woman coerced her horse forward, and the black animal stepped with hesitation. The wolves began growling louder as the horse closed on them.

“My lady!” the big woman said with concern. “What are you doing? That’s a direwolf.”

“It is,” the red-haired woman said, looking back at the big woman. “And who am I?”

The big woman regarded her leader with a perplexed look.

“She will not hurt me, or any of us,” the red-haired woman turned back, dismounted from her horse and stepped closer to the direwolf. 

She growled deeper, baring her fangs and stepped forward but the woman did not falter, her red hair cascaded down her shoulders and her winter blue eyes gazed deeply into the direwolf.

“You know who I am, Nymeria.”

* * *

 

“You are late, child.”

She found herself gazing over the city lit by the hot sun, the noisy street below filled her ears, and the rising stink of the town filled her nose. The blue of the sea shone beyond the great mass of stone buildings and stone walls as she stood in the red tower that sat on the highest hill in the city. She heard the sudden tap of wood on stone and turned quickly, seeing an olive-skinned man, with thick, curly, black hair. Leather combat gloves held a wooden sword in one hand, a thin steel short sword in the other. He wore black boots, elegant brown pants with a fine linen doublet over a light blue shirt, held by a leather belt with a plain, brushed bronze buckle. A white tree with red leaves and a face carved in its trunk, grew in the room behind the man.

He tossed the short sword at her, but she failed to catch it, the steel clanged against the stone floor, she looked back at the olive-skinned man, he had a sullen look of dejection.

“What has happened to you, girl? You cannot catch a sword anymore, hmm?” the dancing master said. “Pick it up!”

She knelt for the thin sword, keeping her eyes on the olive-skinned man with the thick and familiar accent. She rose back to her feet and looked down at herself. She was wearing a clean light blue cotton tunic, brown breeches and brown riding boots. Her dark hair fell into her eyes; it was loose and unkempt. She raised her head, flicked the hair out of her eyes, put apart her legs and held the blade in front of her.

“Now you are standing wrong,” he chastised. “I did not train you as a knight, you are not wielding a longsword, you are wielding—”

“A needle,” she found herself saying.

“Just so,” he smiled.

But she cast her eyes down to the sword in her hand, sadness filling her. She heard the man step forward, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You are troubled, hmm?” he said.

“Yes,” she looked up to his familiar face.

“You are hurt, and you are fearing for your brother.”

“Yes,” she said again.

“You aren’t here,” he continued, “you are with your trouble. Just as you were with your trouble when the fighting happened, and more trouble came to you.”

“I had to do something, or they would have killed him!” she blurted.

“Ahh, you did what you could, and met trouble. And what? Will you get back on your feet how you always used when we trained, will you be as swift as a snake and silent as a shadow once again? Or will you give in so soon and let the God of Death take you?”

She felt her stomach sink as she tried to reach for the answers, though none came to her. She looked down to the thin blade, but it had disappeared, her hands empty and despair crossed her face as she drew it up to the olive-skinned man. 

He moved his hand to the side of her face and gave her a warm smile. “What do we say to the God of Death?”

She made to respond but heard the sudden familiar sound behind her, of a whetstone, grinding against steel. She turned back to the city, but it had gone. Instead, she saw a wide-open land, green grass and tall trees and clear blue skies with the noise of birds singing and the smell of fresh country air. She stood on a hillside at the threshold between the mountains and the green lands of trees and rivers, the sun hitting her with its warmth.

“That all it took, eh?”

The thick gravelly voice from her left echoed across the land, she turned her gaze to it and saw a large man, sitting on the stump of a white tree, red leaves surrounding it on the ground. His long, dirty brown hair came to a stop on the right side of his skull, where viscous burnt skin had its mark across half his face. Then a thick beard continued from where the scars stopped. He wore a deep blue, studded gambeson, dark brown pants and black leather boots. A big black destrier stood beside him, saddled with a huge two-handed longsword in its scabbard. Arya watched the horse pick at green grass as she walked towards the man, the burn scar facing her. As she approached him, she saw he was sharpening a sword, but it wasn’t his own. He had in his left hand a whetstone, which he ran down the thin steel blade in his right hand, the familiar thin blade that someone had gifted her.

“Aye, is the wolf bitch tamed?” the large man turned his gaze to her.

“N-no…” she responded in a whisper, though her voice too echoed throughout the land.

His face was solemn but warm to her eyes. The strange, black destrier neighed enthusiastically as the large man’s eyes fell on hers.

“Yer gonna let a little cut in yer leg stop ya?” he said. “Is that all it took to kill ya? Is that what you learnt from all that travelling with me, to give up?” 

“I haven't given up!" She said defiantly. 

"Ya sure?" He barked like a hound, "Ya been lying there, who knows how long, moanin' an’ groanin' and all that horseshit. Yer better than that."

"I-"

He dropped the whetstone and rose to his feet. He placed his heavy left hand around her face, and she looked up to his eyes.

“Yer not gonna let that little cut kill ya,” he lifted his other hand, pressing the thin shortsword to her chest, hilt first. “That's not you, yer stronger than that, I watched over you all those years ago, I know it."

She lowered her eyes from his down to the sword and lifted her left hand, slowly grasping the small hilt. But when her fingers enclosed around it, the blade disappeared, the destrier disappeared, and the large man disappeared, the world around her went black, and she could feel herself falling.

She screamed as she fell and thudded to the cold floor. She landed in blackness. She felt nothing beneath her; she heard no sound and smelt nothing. She picked herself up in the darkness. There were no trees or grass. The whole world was black, and she could see nothing but then felt a wack against her arm.

“Who are you?” A woman’s thin voice in the darkness.

Another wack, against her hip “Cunt!” she yelled into the oblivion.

“You’re weak, you’ll never be one of us!” the woman screamed.

“You’re right, I’m not one of you,”

She felt the whizz of air coming towards her, the sound of wood in a foe’s hands, the traces of feet as they moved to attack. She turned to the noise, stepped back reached out her hand, the wooden staff landed in her palm, stopping the next blow and light came to the world. She looked around and found herself in a large dim room, lit by candles. Amongst them were pillars, each pillar had a square cut out, and each cut out held the skin of a persons face. In the distance of the rooms sat a white tree with red leaves.

She brought her gaze back her assailant. The woman had short cut dirty blonde hair. Her face was the scorn of anger and jealousy, she wore a plain black cotton garment, with a white under tunic.

“Then who are you?” the jealous woman asked.

“You’re about to find out,” she replied, and she threw a clenched fist at the jealous woman, hitting her square in the nose. 

The woman reeled back, dropping the wooden staff, she held her hands to her now bloody face, when she removed her hand's, blood seeped from her eye sockets, her mouth and her nose. Then her face changed. She wore the face and body of a chubby young boy, bleeding from a sword piercing in his belly. Then it turned again, to a soldier with twin castles crested on his armour, several stab wounds in his chest. Again it changed, the man in the red armour who took her gifted sword and killed her friend, blood seeping from the single hole in his neck. Now it was the knight that killed her Dancing Master, the knight's throat was cut, blood gushing from it, his eyes stabbed out and his chest full of small stab wounds, blood covered his entire body. The jealous woman’s face kept changing, from soldiers to lords, men chocking on wine, pieces of other men's bodies cut off, their fingers and flesh mixed into a pie. Then her face changed to an old man, slick grey hair, wearing a dirty brown overcoat, his neck had a wide cut and blood seeped from it, but he gave a creepy and eerie smile. 

Snow suddenly fell on them, and they were in a small, snow-laden castle courtyard, a white tree with a face carved in it stood beside them, red leaves of the tree swayed above. The jealous woman changed once more, to the ice blue skin and long nails. The dark armour and horned head. His long face and evil features. His icy blue eyes and the sound of ice cracking as he walked towards her. He grabbed her by her left arm and her throat, she tried to fight him, but she had no weapons, her throat burned and pain seared through her. 

Then, nothing. She was suddenly back in the dim room with the pillars of faces and the white tree in the distance. She grasped at her throat coughing, as she looked around, turning through the room and stopping when she saw a shadowy figure standing before her, it had no face and resembled not a man or a woman. But it smelt of death.

“Who are you?” She asked it.

“A Stranger,” a man’s voice from behind her. “And a dreaming girl knows his name.”

She turned and saw a man, wearing sandals and dirty grey robes, his handsome face was shrouded by long hair, that was red on one side and white on the other. She knew him as one without a name.

“A girl defeated her foes, gifting the God of Death with many names,” no one said, “even defeating the one who would defy The God of Death, leading an army of undead.  Yet a girl is troubled?"

The dreaming girl did not respond. She stared at the man; he stepped eerily towards her, a thin smile on his face.

“Seeing and doing such things at such a young age has scarred a girl,” he said, still smiling. “Is that how a man trained you? Is that why a man chose you to join us? A man thought a girl was not afraid.”

“I’m not afraid!” the dreaming girl responded in defiance.

“Then why does a girl fear such things? Why does a girl let her mind beat her so?”

“I don’t,” she said.

“You lie. To me, to the Many-Faced God, to yourself. It still bothers a girl. Valar morghulis, all men must die.”

“Valar dohaeris,” she responded in turn, “All men must serve.”

No one smiled and nodded, “We trained a girl with skills very few poses, and with the other skills you learnt in the past, a girl has become one of the best of us. A girl has used those skills for her personal needs to serve herself, but also for great deeds in service of many others. However, these skills and knowledge, and how a girl uses them, come with consequences. It is up to a girl to train her mind to deal with them.”

He walked calmly to the side, a large rock formation appeared next to him, and he placed his hand on it. “All men must serve the God of Death,” no one said, “and a girl, a she-wolf, is his instrument. Take charge as a girl has done before and use your mind as a weapon, take care of it, sharpen it, kill with it."

He tapped his hands on the rocks, and the dreaming girl walked slowly towards it, as she approached the rocks, she heard the clashing of steel coming from them, the music of horses, the blowing of cold wind rattling shutters, the laughter of people and the sound of an old woman's voice. She knelt over the rocks and smelt the earthen scent of glass gardens and the hearty smell of fresh castle food. When she placed her hands on the rocks, she felt the slick grey stone of castle walls; she felt the presence of people she knew, family, brothers and a sister. She pictured a scary face carved into a white tree and its red leaves blowing in summer snows. She started throwing rocks away, removing them, trying to find the source of the sounds. She threw them behind her, to the side, creating a larger and larger hole so her hand could fit, she reached in and grasped something. Her hand drew out a sword; it’s short, thin pointy blade of castle-forged steel felt warm and perfect in her hands. When she held it and looked at it, she remembered the smile of her brother.

“Little sister,” she heard his voice say, she felt the sensation of his hand mess her hair, filling her heart with happiness. And for the first time in this strangeness, there were tears in her eyes.

She felt the hand of no one touch her shoulder, and the world went black once again.

* * *

 

She heard laughter and the voices of common people as she stood in a castle courtyard. She looked around at its grey walls surrounding her, and the stone and wooden buildings of the castle. She smelt the earthen scent of the glass gardens,  the smell of horse dung and the clang of steel from the forge. She was home, and it was summer.

“This isn’t a dream,” she said to herself

“It is a dream,” a young man’s voice came from beside her, and she turned to face him.

He was taller than her, with short and straight auburn hair and a melancholy, all-knowing face. He was standing, walking towards her.

“But it is also a memory,” he added when he stopped next to her.

“How are...” she said perplexed. “Are you doing this?”

“Yes, our family are all wargs. Our shared blood allows me this for a short while.”

She looked at him with confusion, and then a thought came to her.

“Were the other dreams… were they you as well?”

“No,” he said plainly. “That was you. Follow me”

She followed him through the courtyards of their home, as they walked the grass did not seem to be disturbed by their treading. But the gaze of horses they passed seemed to follow them. They finally entered a courtyard by the library, an archery target of tightly compacted straw stood lonesome in the yard as an arrow whizzed by it. They stopped between it and the group, and cast their gaze to the group of brothers. There was a young child, with messy auburn hair sitting on a saddle that rested on fencing, he was giggling with excitement at his older brothers, huddled together beyond the archery target. She saw a tall young man with curly auburn hair and a handsome face, besides him, was another young man of similar age, though shorter in height. He had shoulder-length dark hair, dark eyes and a long face. Next to them was another young boy, he had straight, auburn hair that hung down to his ears and a face that was excited about the future. In the boy's hand he held a bow, an arrow was taut in its bowstring and he shot it at the target, but it missed, whizzing by the straw.

The two older brothers laughed heartily at his failure, and the boy stamped his foot into the ground in frustration.

“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” The warm voice came from a man standing above the brothers on the raised patio. 

She raised her eyes to the father, his dark hair, dark eyes and long face smiling pleasantly at his sons below him. She saw next to him, smiling warmly, the mother. Her auburn, almost red hair, braided behind her, swayed gently in the breeze. The sight of the mother and father brought happiness and warmth to her but also a sadness she could not avoid.

“Go on, Bran,” the father said to the young boy with the bow.

The young boy notched another arrow, and his long-faced brother bent down to his ear.

“Don’t think too much, Bran,” he said.

“Relax your bow arm,” the other brother with curly, auburn-haired said, standing with his arms crossed.

The young boy held the arrow taut, aiming at the straw target. But before he could loose the arrow, another came flying by him from behind and lodged directly in the centre of the target, a perfect hit. She followed the brother's gaze, all turning to face the marksman. A young girl held a bow, with long messy dark hair, a long face and dark eyes. Her clothes were unkempt and dirty. She gave a half-hearted curtsy to her brother and wore a cheeky grin. The young boy threw down his bow and chased after his sister, she dropped hers and ran from him, laughing. The other brothers all laughed at the sight, as did the mother and father.

She watched as the young boy and the dirty little girl ran passed them, not paying them any mind. She saw the girl run around a horse in the yard and the boy slid under the horse and kept running after his big sister.

“You caught me, remember?” she said, watching them run. “I was faster, but you jumped over the obstacles I ran around, and you caught me and tackled me and poked me.”

She felt a tear run down her cheek. “All the people watched us muck about in the dirt, and they laughed until the guards separated us.” she gave a tearful laugh at the memory. 

“Do you remember?” she turned to face the young man that shared in this memory and wiped the tears from her eyes with her sleeve.

“I remember quite a lot,” he said, casting his gaze on her.

“Why are you showing me this?” she asked him earnestly. “These memories, they are good memories, but seeing them so vividly, hurts.”

“I show you, so you can remember,” he began. “So you can see what could be possible in the future, that this…”

He waved his arm around the courtyard, looking to the people and the family, the father and mother on the patio, the brothers on the ground collecting arrows.

“That this past could exist again. If you fight.”

“This?” she looked around following his arm, “This isn’t me. Children, a family. I don’t think I will ever have this.”

“No,” he said with confidence, “you won’t.”

His blunt agreement hurt her, but she did not know why.

“But,” he continued, “someone else might.”

“Who?”

He stepped close to her and placed a hand on her shoulder and gave a warm, rare smile.

“Live.”

* * *

 

The world flashed white, and the dreaming girl found herself lying on her back, staring up to the clear night sky and felt the familiar sensation of snow on her back. She looked down to herself and noticed she was wearing her armour that was clean and unmarked from battle. The dark brown leather doublet, and brown tassels around her thighs in the style of her family. She saw the brown breeches and dark brown combat boots on her feet, and the brown combat gloves on her hand. She pushed herself off the snow and stood on her feet. She had no weapons and her belt with its scabbards for her swords was not around her waist. She put her hand through her hair: it felt tied back the way her father and brother did it, the dark hair that was not tied fell at the nape of her neck

She heard the crackling of a fire to her right and swept her view towards it, and she saw three figures standing in front of a fire burning on the snow. She approached the strange figures, and when she came close, they all turned. Two men stood flanking a woman, the man on the left wore his dirty brown hair in a top knot, his steel breastplate was covered by a worn red robe, a sword hung at his waist, and a leather skin in his hands and she could smell the rum coming from it. The man to the right looked to be a knight. He bore fine steel armour, a fine steel longsword, a plain linen cloak that waved behind gently in the breeze and an eye-patch made of leather that covered his right eye. The fiery women in the centre wore dark red robes, and long dark red hair framed her beautiful face. 

“We have been waiting for you,” the Red Woman said.

“What is this?” the dreaming girl responded glancing cautiously at the three.

“The Lord of Light isn’t done with you yet, girl,” the priest on the left said. And he clasped his right hand on her left shoulder, smiling at her.

“You have done well, my lady,” the knight with the eye-patch said. “And I have fulfilled my purpose in this world. But it is not over for you yet.”

The eye-patched knight smiled as well and clasped his left hand on her right shoulder, and the flames in the fire behind began burning taller, she looked down on the ground and noticed the flames began burning at the feet of the three in front of her.

The Red Woman kneeled and placed a hand on the dreaming girl's chest, the flames soared high and began engulfing the three, though they did not move, or flinch, or scream. The dreaming girl felt the heat coming from their hands, and she tried to step away but could not move. 

The Red Woman smiled, kindly and spoke in a deep resonating voice. “He and you, share a destiny.”

“Who?” the dreaming girl responded.

“Behind you,” the Red Woman said, still smiling and the three burst into cinders.

Flames flowed down their arms that touched the dreaming girl, and she felt the heat go inside her. The world went dark again as the red light from the flames extinguished. The dreaming girl heard the crack of ice behind her, and she turned.

She saw, padding quietly on the snow, a stunted direwolf. His pure white fur coat was stirring in the breeze, his deep red eyes staring at the dreaming girl, knowingly. The direwolf came up to her without hesitation and walked around her legs, wagging his tail. She knelt to the wolf and began patting him, he responded by licking her face, and she laughed with joy. But he jolted away and began trotting towards trees in the darkness, he stopped, turned his head back to the girl, then after a moment he ran off again into the blackness. 

She followed the direwolf, running into the trees, following his paw prints in the snow, until she found herself in a clearing, she saw a frozen-over pond to her left and just beside it was a large white tree, its red leaves blowing in the wind and a weirwood face carved into its trunk. At the base of the tree, she noticed the white direwolf, and another, larger direwolf, with grey and white fur. The two direwolves were playing together, with a man. The man had shoulder-length dark hair, dark eyes and a long face. He wore a wolf fur coat, and his armour was all black, with black boots, black gloves and black pants. He had on his waist a longsword, its black hilt protruding from its scabbard and its pommel fashioned with a snarling white direwolf, with red eyes.

The dreaming girl approached and stood under the weirwood tree with them. The large grey and white direwolf came running to her, panting and wagging its tail with excitement. She felt a bond to this wolf, and she patted behind its ears as it stood by her side, the white direwolf stood by the side of long-faced man. Who smiled warmly at the dreaming girl. He held in his hand a sword belt with two scabbards, one for a dagger, the other for a short sword. In his other hand, he held a piece of cotton sheet that wrapped around something.

He handed her the belt first, and she grabbed it without hesitation, she wrapped it around her waist and pulled the buckle tight, making the fit feel familiar. The sword scabbard was on her right, for the left hand and the scabbard for the dagger was on her left. The man continued to smile as he threw off the cotton sheet of the object in his other hand. He placed across his hands, a thin short sword, made of castle-forged steel. The fine blade could poke a man full of holes if she was quick enough, and the sight of it warmed her heart.

He placed the thin blade in her hands, and it felt perfect for her. He placed a hand around her face, his touch was warm, as was his smile, and she felt her heart fill with joy at his presence.

“First lesson,” he said.

“Stick em’ with the pointy end,” she finished for him, and he laughed.

He messed her hair with his hand, and she giggled at him, playfully pulling her head back. She placed the thin sword into its scabbard on her waist and turned her gaze back to the loving smile of the man, his hand rested on her shoulder.

“You’re a fighter, a warrior,” he said, still smiling “I’d prefer it if you didn’t get into any fights or battles.”

His face became serious, he moved it closer to her, and his grip tightened around her shoulder. “But if you have to fight, win.”

She smiled slyly at him, and he returned it quickly. She heard the echo of a horse neighing to her left and turned her gaze towards it, but nothing betrayed its presence. She turned back to the man, but he had disappeared as did the two direwolves. All that filled the oblivion was the snow on the ground and the blowing red leaves of the weirwood tree beside her.

A horse whinnied behind her, and she turned startled at it, it was a beautiful white mare that looked exceedingly familiar to her. She placed a hand on the horse's long snout, and the palfrey welcomed her touch. The dreaming girl felt like the horse knew her.

“You’re a good girl,” she said to the horse, and she suddenly realised the horse had armour on.

A polished steel shaffron covered the horse's face, with a polished steel crinket over its mane followed by a fine leather saddle, upon which sat a woman. The dreaming girl stepped back from the horse, that was equipped for war and noticed a small pack of wolf cubs moving up behind the horse, the dreaming girl looked up at the rider.

The thin and tall woman wore a light grey wardress that was corsetted at her waist. She had black riding boots and black leather gloves holding on to the horse’s reins. She wore a polished steel breastplate that was made by a skilled blacksmith. It had embossed in its centre, a weirwood tree and over her right arm was more polished steel an elbow piece that led to a pauldron over her right shoulder, the pauldron fashioned in the shape of a snarling direwolf head. Belting about her waist, on her left hip was a gold-hilted sword, resting in its scabbard. At bottom of the breastplate, hung an iron chain, an iron pendant that was in the shape of a needle, attached to the chain, dangling low.

The woman's face was beautiful, with a chiselled but elegant chin and symmetrical features. Long red hair plaited for war, fell over her shoulders and down her back. On top of her red hair sat a polished, fine, iron queen’s crown, with the form of two snarling direwolves at the front.

The Queen lowered her face and smiled, her winter blue eyes staring at the dreaming girl. She dismounted from her horse and drew from her saddlebags, a dagger, with a sharp curved blade of Valyrian steel and a hilt with gold filigree and dragonglass embedded into it.

The tall queen turned to the dreaming girl and walked towards her, the wolf pups behind following her steps. She knelt in front of the dreaming girl and placed the dagger in her hands. The dreaming girl looked at the dagger longingly and felt the touch of The Queen’s hand on her shoulder. She placed the dagger in its scabbard on her left hip and looked at the red wolf queen.

The red leaves of the weirwood tree stirred above them as The Queen smiled warmly at The Princess.

"What do we say, to the God of Death?" The Queen asked.

"Not today," The Princess responded and smiled.

The Queen returned the smile warmly and brought their faces closer, and whispered.

“Wake up, sister.”

* * *

 

She lifted her heavy eyelids and gazed her tired eyes to the morning sunlight that pierced through the dark tent. Her head throbbed with pain, and a damp sweat covered her forehead and stuck her hair on to it. The smells of horse dung, burning fires and rabbit stew filled her nose. The noises of thousands of men moving and talking, horses neighing, hammers hitting steel and birds singing in the nearby trees filled her ears. The smell and noise of an armies camp. She drew her head down, looking at her body. She lay on a bed of linen and fur on the floor of the tent, she had on a light blue tunic that was damp with more sweat and brown breeches, the right side of the pants were cut open at her thigh, a white linen bandage wrapped around it, where she remembered the Unsullied spear had pierced her.

Pain coursed through her thigh, she gritted her teeth at it and closed her eyes, avoiding the pain and making no noise. She was confident this was no strange dream or memory her brother was showing her. Then she noticed a warmness around her left hand. She turned her head over to view a man sitting on a stool, besides her in the dark tent. His face was looking down into the dirt of the tent, and her hand pressed against his lips. He wore brown pants and a fine yellow, cotton doublet, the image of a powerful black stag sown on the front. He noticed her gaze and lifted his head, his handsome, chiselled face that was framed by his short black hair, was marked by disbelief. Tears filled his piercing blue eyes that gazed into her deep-set dark eyes, and she gave him a weary smile. 

His lips formed a wide, radiant smile in response, and he began to breathe quickly and laugh with relief as emotion filled his following word.

“Arya!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> There may be a while before the next chapter. Not 100% sure if it'll come out next week.
> 
> Sorry to those who though the last chapter was the end of a certain character. Can't do that, she is too much fun to write.


	12. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya awakens to a handicap and a new title. She meets a friend of her brother, shows how she leads and plans for another potential battle in the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long to release. I was quite busy and it ended up being a bigger chapter than I had anticipated.
> 
> Thanks for all the support and kind words though, always enjoy reading what you have to say. :)

"You’re alive, ya bloody alive!” Gendry took a hand, placing it around Arya’s cheek and fell off the wooden stool on Arya’s left and collapsed to his knees

His face was vibrant with joy and relief. He placed his lips on her forehead and gave her a long kiss. She felt his tears fall on her face, she smiled and laughed softly, then the dark tent she lay in, filled with light as people entered.

“Commander Stark?” someone said with glee in his voice.

Gendry took himself from her and shifted. Arya saw two Northern soldiers standing at the entrance, one had a bald head and a red beard, the other had a mop of brown hair on his head and great, long, brown beard framing a wide toothy smile as he looked at Arya, she recognised him as one of Sansa’s household guards. The one who had gone to protect his lord during the battle with the Unsullied, it was Aberdale.

“Forgive us for intruding, Warden,” he said, “but we heard voices and thought you came back to life… and ya did.” He laughed heartily and clapped his fellow soldier on his back. He joined in the chorus.

She gave a few seconds look of confusion at the ‘Warden’ title but then regarded the two men. “There is nothing to forgive. How…” 

Her thoughts cut her words short, and the sudden image came to her mind of a man, with dark hair, dark eyes and a long face who was standing on snow under the red leaves of a weirwood tree, holding Needle in his hands.

“Jon!?” she asked to the room.

“Not to worry, Warden,” Aberdale said. “Lord Jon is still alive, but he’s a prisoner of the Unsullied in King’s Landing.”

“Says who?”

“Ser Davos and Lord Reed came to an agreement with their commander… Grey Wart, isn't it?” Aberdale answered.

“Grey _Worm_ ,” Arya corrected. “We trust him now, do we?”

The two soldiers looked at each other with uncertainty. Arya sighed heavily, she put her hands onto the bed and tried to lift herself, but her body lacked strength, her head throbbed, and her leg seethed with pain, she fell back down onto the furs and groaned in anguish.

“Easy, Arya,” Gendry said, placing a hand on her. “You only just woke up.”

“Fuck,” she cursed at the pain in a whisper.

“Commander, can we get you anything?” the red-bearded soldier asked.

She turned her aching head to face him. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Mikel, Commander.”

“Mikel, I need some food and ale. Aberdale,” she shifted her eyes to him. “Bring Ser Davos and Lord Reed here.”

“Aye, as yer command,” he said, and the two soldiers parted from the tent.

As they left Arya heard the booming voice of Aberdale shout around the camp “The Commander is alive lads, Arya Stark is alive,” his voice echoed. She heard cheers and whoops around the camp as they received the news, and she smiled faintly at the sounds. She faced Gendry and studied him with a look of confusion.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too,” he smiled cheekily. “Sansa sent a raven to me, and to all the other major lords and ladies in Westeros. Telling us what happened with Daenerys and the whole burning of King’s Landing. She told us to come to King’s Landing and settle the future of Westeros.”

“But you’re here, not in King’s Landing,” Arya said.

“I sailed to Duskendale with a few other storm lords. Told them it would be safer in your camp then around Unsullied and Dothraki. The rest went with our army by land.”

“You're bringing an army?”

“Aye, part of one... the other lords only agreed to bring the army to protect their interest.”

“ _Their_ interest?” Arya said perplexed. “You are the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and the Warden of the South. You command those lords. Their armies are yours to command."

“I’ve been Lord for a few weeks, they barely know me or trust me. And if Queen Daenerys is truly dead, then they have no reason to obey me if I don’t follow their interest. They feel they can get rid of me with no reprec… reper...rep—”

“Repercussions?” Arya offered.

“Aye, repercussions.”

“Bloody politics,” Arya sighed heavily, then furrowed her eyebrows in thought, “Why are the men calling me Warden?”

“You should probably read the scroll Sansa wrote. She had copies made and sent to everyone. I kept mine, I have it with me if you want to read it.”

She furrowed her thick eyebrows further, “You have it on your person, why?”

“Aye, well…” Gendry looked around shyly. “It's my first scroll as a lord…”

Arya tried to resist a grin.

“What?” He looked at her aghast.

She broke into laughter, twisting her face. The laughter turned into a long contagious giggle that filled the tent. Gendry smiled and joined in the merriment unwillingly, shaking his head as Arya continued uncontrollably, but the giggling caught in her throat and she began to cough, pain shot through her head and leg with each strained hack.

Gendy placed his hands on her again and ran his fingers through her hair, calming her. The coughing began to settle.

“What’s so funny?” he asked with a smile when she stopped coughing “I’m sure lords keep the scrolls they receive.”

“Yes, with their Maesters in their castles, not take them around on their person,” she teased. She breathed deeply to regain her composer and smiled at him, “You’re a fool, _Lord_ Gendry. Read the scroll to me.”

Gendry smiled back at her and took out a heavily folded parchment from a stitched hole in his doublet, unfolded it and held out in front of himself.

“I… I can’t read.”

“You should learn,” Arya said

“I am, Maester Jurne at Storm’s End is teaching me,” he passed the parchment to Arya.

“Then read it to me,” she pushed his gifting hand back towards him.

“No, I can’t… I’m not...” 

“If you don’t practice, you’ll never get anywhere.”

He sighed and looked down at the parchment, for a long moment before trying to read, “M-my lo… lords, la… lad… ladies and pr...pric..pri… prices of weh… wehs…”

Arya snatched the parchment from his hands, “Didn’t think you’d be _that_ bad,” she mocked with a smirk.

“A’right, well some of us weren’t lucky enough to get a castle education, _my lady,_ ” Gendry said, returning the mock.

She breathed lightly through her nose and smiled warmly at him, “Keep practising as often as you can, and you’ll get it. Ser Davos said he was taught to read by Stannis’s daughter, and he’s an old smuggler.”

Gendry gave her half a smile and nodded. She lifted herself slowly, so she sat on the bedding and drew her eyes down to the parchment to look upon its words. It was undoubtedly Sansa’s elegant, neat handwriting, the parchment was filled from top to bottom and had markings for:

_Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End,Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the South._

A wax seal resided on it with the snarling direwolf sigil of House Stark. Arya blinked her dry eyes and began reading:

_My Lords, Ladies and Princes of Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen has laid King's Landing low, hundreds and thousands of innocents have been burned alive by her dragon or slain by her Dothraki and Unsullied. Cersei Lannister has likely perished with the rest. My sister Arya Stark, the Hero of Winterfell and, by my decree, Warden of the North—_

"Warden of the North?!" Arya spat

“Aye…” Gendry said in a low voice.

Arya’s face scrunched up at Gendry, “She can’t make me Warden, Jon is Warden, and she isn’t Queen.”

“Speak to Davos,” was all Gendry offered and Arya’s face scrunched up even further in confusion. She shook her head of the thoughts and brought her grimace back down to the writing.

_My sister Arya Stark, the Hero of Winterfell and, by my decree, Warden of the North, has taken command of the Northern armies and has surrounded King’s Landing to secure the safety of our brother, Jon Snow. Thanks to the scrolls Lord Varys sent across Westeros, many of you now know Jon's birth name of Aegon Targaryen the Sixth, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Unsullied and Dothraki have seized him as their prisoner, as a consequence for his justified retribution on Daenerys Targaryen for her brutal mass murder. My sister and I intend on freeing him, be it by force or else wise. Jon Snow is a war-hero and has given his life to protect others, his sacrifice to remove Daenerys Targaryen has saved millions of more lives from her tyranny._

_Foreign armies of rapists, pillagers and killers hold the Capital and will spread war further across Westeros if we give in to our folly, as I know we have all made the mistake of doing in the past. I implore you to come to King’s Landing and stand by my side so we may secure the future of our country from those who would deem to rule it or destroy it. They followed a tyrannical, foreign, self-proclaimed queen from a family of mad-men, and see her judgement as truth. They hold our brother prisoner, and they threaten our family and our home._ _The North remembers. T_ _he last time others tried to threaten or destroy House Stark, we took our vengeance._ _Do not make the mistake of thinking that we cannot do it again._ _Winter came for the enemies of House Stark. Winter came for Daenerys Targaryen. Winter is coming._

_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Lady Paramount of the North._

_Getting that intimidation down, Sansa._ Arya thought to herself as she laid her hands into her lap and looked forward at the table that resided at the end of her bedding, staring into its wooden frame. _Warden of the North?_  She mulled _,_  she didn’t want this, she only took command to protect Jon, not to take his position.

“Sansa can be intimidating. Gotta admit she knows her way around words,” Gendry said as Arya folded the parchment up and handed it back to him. 

“She’s always had a way with words,” Arya replied. “She could destroy someone's entire self-confidence with one sentence. Fool a man into loving her and use that love against him. Wrap words around a stupid king, or convince an entire Kingdom not to execute someone so she could use him. This scroll she wrote has likely convinced many to come to King’s Landing, either to protect their interest or country or just because they are afraid of Sansa and the Starks.”

“Aye, to right… Sounds like you admire her skill with words,” Gendry said. 

“It’s invigorating watching her do it. It used to annoy me the most about her. But aye, now I admire it.”

Gendry gave a short snort of laughter, “When I spoke to her in Winterfell, Sansa said almost the exact same thing about you and not mincing your words.”

Arya smiled at his comment, “Wish she wouldn’t mention the Hero of Winterfell horseshit, though.”

“Makes your side sound a lot better, and even more intimidating. ‘The hero of the Long Night leading Northern armies against foreign invaders.’ I know which side I’d choose,” Gendry said, putting the parchment back into his doublet. “And you are a hero, whether you like it or not."

Arya didn't respond, she stared at the ceiling of the tent, watching the wind blow ripples through the fabric. _Warden of the North?_

"You never used to curse, you spent too much time with The Hound," Gendry stated, trying to break the silence.

"His name was Sandor…" Arya said under her breath.

"What?"

"Nothing." 

Arya adjusted herself, trying to make her position more comfortable, and her mind ran with thoughts of Sandor. The last time she saw him, he gave her advice that she would carry for the rest of her life. She hoped that perhaps he survived what he walked into, and the destruction of most of the Red Keep. He survived being beaten to death by Brienne and a long fall... _No,_ she thought, _nobody could have survived the destruction he walked into, not even Sandor_. As her thoughts raced with memories of the giant man, Sandor Clegane of the Westerlands, she realised that she wished she had spent more time with him.

“Do they… hurt?” Gendry interrupted her thought, pointing the deep blue ice scars on Arya’s neck and left wrist.

She touched them anxiously as a vision of the Night King pierced her mind's eye for a split second, his cold demon hands wrapped around her throat and wrist, the burning ice torment penetrating through her armour and clothes.

“Right now, not as bad as my leg,” she said.

“But when your leg was fine?”

She glanced at Gendry, “Occasionally, there is an ich or burning pain that’s bearable. But sometimes it feels like it did when he… when the Night King grabbed me.”

“What did that feel like?”

“Like an ice burn, but worse,” Arya told it. “Like my bones were being crushed and my entire body was being pierced by ice shards. I’m surprised I had the capability to move as quickly as I did and kill him. I suppose it was the adrenaline helping me. Bran says he gets the same pains from his scar.”

Gendry tilted his head, perplexed. “You still feel all that from those scars, even after he’s dead.”

“At times, yes. Some things don’t leave us.”

The dim tent filled with sunlight and Gendry whirled around as the entrance parted and several men walked through. Mikel came in first with a bowl of rabbit stew, two chunks of hard bread and a cup of ale. Gendry shifted so Mikel could hand Arya the food, he placed it in her hands, and the cup beside her on the dirt floor then stepped back and stood before her. Arya began dipping the hard bread into the soup and scoffed it down, then she saw out the corner of her eye, Ser Davos, Lord Reed and another man of much older age, wearing a tattered black robe and a Maesters link chain around his neck, walk into the tent and the three men stood to the left of her. She was now towered over by them, with Miken at the base of the bedding, and Gendry still kneeling beside her. 

“This is the second time I’ve seen a Stark seemingly come back from the dead. Good to see you alive, _Warden,_ ” Davos said, emphasising the last words with a smile.

“And with an appetite,” Lord Reed added also smiling. 

“M’rords,” Arya greeted them, with a mouth full of food, then swallowed heavily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “This is the second time someone has told me I died.”

“Well not really, but we all thought you were a goner,” Davos stepped forward, he held a long thick stick in his hand. “You've been out for a while and the last few days you were hardly breathing, several times we thought you wouldn’t make it through the night, but your heart kept beating. We had to force water and soup into yer gob, you were barely conscious enough to eat it. But here you are stuffing yourself.”

“Need the energy,” Arya replied after swallowing more bread and soup.

She picked up the cup beside her without looking and drank the liquid heartily but the taste made her spit the contents all over the bedding. To the shock of everyone present.

“What the hells is this!?” She boomed at Mikel, “I asked for ale, not water!”

“Your body needs water to help the healing process,” a thin and old voice said

Arya turned her gaze the old Maester who spoke and narrowed her eyes at him. “Who are you?”

“I am Maester Brennard of White Harbor, my lady,” he bowed deeply to her, then stood back upright. “I was one of the many overlooking your recovery when I could and it was I who changed your ale to water.”

“Fancy. Trick.” Arya replied making each word full of scorn and sarcasm. “Can you turn the water back into ale?”

Brennard fluttered his eyes in a gesture of superiority, “No my lady, I simply changed cups,” he said with condescension. “Your body needs water to he—”

Arya lifted the cup and threw the water over the Maester and he reeled back yelping with shock as the water flew upwards into his face and chest. Ser Davos and Lord Reed also stepped back, Maester Brennard spat the water from his mouth and looked aghast at Arya.

“That is hardly the way a lady should behave!” he spluttered.

“Good thing I’m not a fuckin’ lady,” Arya replied with contempt.

Brennard looked at her bewildered, his eyes darting across the tent, Howland Reed stepped beside him and placed a small hand on the Maesters shoulder.

“Come Maester,” he said, guiding Brennard out and Arya heard the old man mumble discrepancies to Lord Reed.

“Mikel,” Arya commanded, and the soldier stepped up to her. 

“Water’s gone,” she said, still eyeing the Maester as he walked out of her tent. She turned her seething eyes to Mikel and shoved the now empty cup towards him. “Bring me ale.”

“Aye… aye, Warden” he replied anxiously. He took the cup and quickly left the tent, passing by Howland Reed returning alone.

Arya saw the smile on Davos and Gendrys face as Lord Reed stepped back up to them, also wearing a small smile.

“Maester Brennard put himself in charge of your healing,” he said, “though it was a combined effort of several people, my daughter included.”

“Meera Reed?” Arya asked, then devoured yet more soup and bread, and Howland nodded. “I’ ‘ike ta’ spea’ ta’ ‘er,” she hardly enunciated with the bread and soup in her mouth.

Howland nodded again, seemingly understanding what she said. Arya swallowed then drew her eyes to Davos. “Everyone knows about Sansa’s decision to make me Warden I take it?”

“Aye, and all the Lords of the North agree with her,” Davos said

“Agree with her?” Arya replied incredulously. “Jon is Warden and I made them fight Unsullied and we lost. _And_ she can't do it."

"Who's gonna stop her?" Davos mused with a smile.

“Lord Jon is a prisoner, Arya,” Howland Reed said, “he can hardly lead an army from a cell.”

“And the entire army saw what you did against the Unsullied,” Davos added. “Lords and soldiers alike saw you fearlessly charge at an Unsullied shield-wall, jump into it and break it, not something a lot of people in history have done, let alone a woman. And they know you were the one who saved all their lives during the Long Night. They don’t care that a battle was lost. They’ve seen what you’ve done. Just as they’ve seen what Jon and Sansa have done.”

“When you took command, you were Warden of the North in all but name, now Sansa has made it official,” Howland totalled.

Arya sighed, placed the now-empty bowl on the floor to her side and drew her gaze upwards at the ceiling of the tent. She heard Mikel return, making his way towards her bedding and he handed her a cup, now full of ale. She took it from him without looking and he retreated from the tent. She drank deeply from the cup, savouring the taste as she swallowed it and signed a heavy breath again, she was Warden of the North now, a General of all the Northern armies, a leader of men, a hero. She wasn’t sure if any of this was what she wanted. _People don’t usually get what they want, look at Jon._ Arya conceited to herself and looked toward the lords beside her.

“Tell me about this agreement you made with Grey Worm.”

“We have an uneasy truce at the moment,” Davos began. “We agreed to take you and the rest of our fallen. The Unsullied could keep Jon as a prisoner, they also have Lord Tyrion prisoner. We told them that Sansa will come south and when she does, a further agreement will be made with her present, because… well because she is Lady Paramount, we did this so we could prevent a war, but…” Davos looked down uncertain.

“Jon told me,” Arya said, “that our father used to say, ‘everything before the word _but,_ is horseshit.’ So what is it?”

Howland Reed spoke for Davos. “Sansa scroll was incredibly intimidating, and she is requesting other lords and ladies of Westeros to proceed to King’s Landing and join her. So we are unsure of her intentions.”

“Yes, I saw the scroll she sent to Gendry, I know what she is doing,” Arya said, looking back up at the ceiling. “She wants to show that we Starks and the North, are still strong and powerful and to be reckoned with, despite all that has happened to us. She intends to show that strength with our military and all that now follow and fight for her when the other rulers of Westeros all arrive in King's Landing. And she needs the support of the other lords and ladies to make Jon King of the Seven Kingdoms. Or if that fails, then maybe make him King in the North again.”

“Well… I hope she knows what she is doing… but I don’t know if any of that is going to happen,” Davos said doubtfully.

“Then she will fight for the North’s independence regardless. I don’t care what happens, as long as Jon, Sansa and Bran are safe.”

“For someone who claims not to care, you know a lot about Sansa political intentions,” Gendry said with a teasing tone.

“I've spent over a year with Sansa, with all her new knowledge, she is the smartest person I know, she knows what she's doing,” Arya replied.  
  
Arya reflected on her sister, she had watched Sansa play the game, with Littlefinger, Daenerys and other Northern lords. The Stark sisters talked about everything they each went through and taught each other much. She pondered in her mind of how Sansa undid Ramsay Bolton’s conditioning of Theon, he was a broken man and she unbroke him, she made him realise he’s a Greyjoy, a warrior and helped him remember his place in House Stark. She broke down Ramsay, reminding him that he is just a bastard with no claims to anything and because of that he killed his own father that he used to worship, and his baby brother, so his title of ‘Lord Bolton’ couldn’t be taken from him, which ironically began his downfall. And she saved Jon at the Battle of the Bastards. _She knows what she is doing._

“At any rate, there is no use in us discussing it,” Davos started, “it will be quite a few days until she arrives and you need a few more days to heal until you can walk again. Your wound fested a bit before we could burn it, so there might be pain for several days yet. Yer lucky we didn’t have to cut your leg off.”

“Had you cut my leg off, I would have cut the rest of your fingers off on your good hand,” Arya said, half-seriously.

Davos laughed earnestly and held forward the large stick in his hands. It was smoothed down by a knife up until the base which was still thick and rough with bits of bark. The top of the stick had a smooth curved handle, that finished with a crude carving of a snarling direwolf, which made Arya smile.

“I erm, made this for you while you were out. If you woke, I figured you would need something to help you walk around,” Davos said, placing the walking stick across her lap.

“A branch from a sentinel tree?” Arya said, grasping the stick in her hands, looking at it eagerly.

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that.”

“I can tell, the thickness, the colour and the bark match one,” she took her gaze from it, looked at Davos and gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, Davos.”

He tilted his head to her smiling, Arya ran her fingers around the direwolf carved handle, admiring Davos’ work. Then after a moment placed the walking stick on the ground beside her.

“Have you placed sentries and scouts out?” Arya asked, becoming serious again.

“Aye, two scouts and several sentries,” Davos said.

“I don’t trust Grey Worm, he likely has his own scouts eyeing us. Send out two more and keep the men training and on their toes.”

“As you command.”

“Have we received any riders from Sansa?” 

“No, Warden,” Howland said, “the only news we have is that scroll she sent to Gendry and the other lords and ladies in the country.”

“Lucky I kept it on me then, ay,” Gendry interrupted with a snarky smile. Arya glanced at him with rolled eyes and he gave a short laugh.

Howland continued. “We sent a raven to her shortly after we returned from the battle with the Unsullied informing Sansa of what happened. We can only hope that it reached Winterfell before she left.”

Arya looked at him “Aye, we should expect a rider from her in the coming days I think. Thank you, my lords. Leave me, my body needs to rest,” Arya said.

Davos and Howland bowed low to her

“Want any milk of the poppy, for the pain?” Davos asked

“ _No_ milk of the poppy,” Arya replied, “I can deal with the pain.”

Davos nodded and followed Howland out of the tent, Gendry however stayed by her side, she looked to him curiously before a thought came to her mind.

“Ser Davos, Lord Reed,” Arya called at them before they left from the threshold of her tent and they turned to face her.

“Do you know the name of the Unsullied that almost killed me?” Arya asked.

Davos and Reed both glanced at the deep Unsullied spear wound on Arya’s thigh, then looked at each other nervously, she saw their eyes dart about their faces as if a silent conversation was taking place between them.

“Answer me,” she commanded.

Davos stepped forward, “Warden, it was their Commander… Grey Worm…”

Arya’s face filled with disdain and she turned her gaze forward, “Very well.”

As the two left the tent, Arya faced Gendry. “Thank you for being here, but you can go. You’re a lord now, you have other responsibilities.”

“Aye, well, if you need anything I am here for you. I still care about you, ya know. When I saw you lying here, almost dead. I couldn’t bear it. And then… you woke up… and I’m… here for you...” Gendry stumbled through, then stared deeply at her.

Arya read between his words and her face that held contempt for Grey Worm, now went sullen with remorse for Gendry.

“Gendry,” she began quietly,” I hope you don’t think because of what has happened and what might happen, that I have changed my mind about us. I haven’t, I never will. Don’t hold out hope for me, or for anything between us. You will always be a great friend and someone I can trust.”

Gendry’s face went sour with grief, the same face she saw when she rejected him in Winterfell. “Sansa told me, that even though you’ve never said it. That you love me and trust me.”

“I do,” Arya replied, “but not the way you want me too. I’ve told you before, I’m not a Lady. I can’t be what you want me to be and I won’t change, for anyone.”

“Aye, I know it,” Gendry smiled faintly at her and grasped her hand gently. “And I still love you, that won’t change.”

“It might not seem like it now, but it will. Go, my lord,” Arya returned the smile and grasped his hand tight, “I need some rest and your lords will be needing you.”

Gendry looked at her a moment, gazing into her dark eyes, his ocean blue iris’ contemplating her. “Rest easy,” he said, kissed her forehead then rose up from his knees and parted from the tent.

Arya slowly laid herself down flat on her bedding, feeling a bit better with a stomach full of food and ale. But the pain in her thigh and head still persisted and she clenched her jaw through its searing burn. She lay with her eyes open thinking of all that had happened, the fight with the Unsullied, her fighting with Longclaw and seeing Jon fight with Needle, then the ensuing battle alongside Jon against the Unsullied. The first time they ever fought side by side, and they worked well together, for the most part, she decided and smiled to herself. But her thoughts came to the dreams she had when she was out, she remembered only sparse things. Being in King’s Landing, then in the country, then the snow. She remembered seeing several faces and fire, she plainly remembered a weirwood tree and... a queen...  But she vividly remembered a vision that Bran had shown her, of being home in Winterfell so many years ago, before they all left and went their own way. Before all the bad things happened. Laughing with Bran and Jon, Robb and Rickon. She missed them, her father's warm smile and her mothers loving embrace, their kind and wise words, she missed Robb’s big laugh and great hugs, she missed Rickon's sweet smile and shaggy hair. She was grateful to see their presence, even if it was in the past. But it also hurt her greatly seeing them, knowing what ended up happening in their end.

 _“I show you this, so you can remember, so you can see what could be possible in the future, that this past could exist again… for someone else”_ Bran had told her in the vision he showed. 

But she had no idea what he meant nor who this future was supposed to be for… She tried her best not to dwell on it, as the rest of the day went slow, she endured the pains throughout but it prevented her from sleep, Aberdale came in at mid-day with more food and ale, Maesters of the North let themselves in periodically to check on Arya and her wounds, offering her milk of the poppy yet she refused it every time until she had to order them too “fuck off.” She heard the clang of swords of practice, the shouts of commands of lords and officers in the army, drilling their men and keeping them on their toes as Arya had ordered. Lords came in as the day went by, Manderly, Tallhart, Hornwood, Bronze Royce of the Vale, Cerywn. All to welcome her back and offer their help in any way, then informing her of the goings-on with their men and to take any orders she had. Though she could offer very little aside to keep them training, make sure the entire camp prepares defences and to stay vigilant, she couldn't plan anything solid until she had a good look at their encampment, it's surroundings and had some news from Sansa. Gendry came back at the fall of night, with another lot of food and ale, and a bowl of a green herby liquid he said was courtesy of Meera Reed saying that she gave it to Arya while she was out and that it will help with the pain. Arya drank it, gritting her teeth through the awful taste that almost caused her to throw it back up, which made Gendry curl over with laughter, thankfully she had the strength to punch him hard in the arm. They ate together, Gendry shared stories with her of his time in King’s Landing and she told him more of her two years in Braavos, he left the tent with a smile his face that she could not help but copy and the noise of soldiers eating and drinking and talking filled her ears, their spirits high despite the situation. At the darkest of the hour, when most had retired, she heard the distant noise of birds in the trees and the howling of wolves, the pain in her head had gone and the throbbing in her thigh had weakened, the reduced pain and the noise of a howling wolf that she found pleasant, finally put her to sleep.

* * *

 

Arya woke up early to the sounds of hammering swords and armoured men moving about, she wiped her eyes of the tired that filled them and sat herself up, breathing in the country air. She broke her fast with hard bread, mouldy cheese and a small cup of ale. War food. After eating, the entrance to the tent parted and Lord Howland Reed entered, alongside him was a young woman, a head shorter than him. She wore tattered leathers, her curly black hair was messy and unkempt and she held in her hands a small bowl of herby liquid. Her lips were thin and her light green eyes were staring at Arya.

“Morning, Commander,” Howland said smiling, “This is my daughter, Meera Reed.”

Arya glanced at them. “My lord, Lady Meera.”

“Meera will do,” she said curtly, adding, “Commander,” belatedly, but before anyone could speak.

“And Arya will do, Meera”

She saw the faintest of smiles come across Meera’s lips, but they quickly cut back to thinness. “My father said you wished to speak to me?” she asked.

“Yes,” Arya motioned an open hand to the stool beside her bedding for Meera to sit on, and she did. Howland stepped to the end of Arya’s bedding and leant on the small table. Arya made herself sit straighter and looked intently at the Lady Reed.

“Bran told us a little of you and your brother.”

“He did?,” Meera asked, with surprise on her face.

“Yes,” Arya admitted, “thank you for helping him and for helping me. Your father said you helped with my recovery and that stuff you made has eased the pain quite a bit.”

Meera smiled quickly then looked down to her hands and drew the bowl to Arya. “I made more.”

Arya took the bowl and drank it deeply, doing her best to fight the foulness that came with it.

“Seven hells,” she cursed after she parted her lips from the bowl, her face scrunched in revulsion.

“I’d like to say you get used to it, but you never do,” Meera said with a laugh.

“What is it?” 

“Healing mixture of my Crannogmen.”

“It's not like milk of the poppy, is it?”

“No,” Howland spoke up, “milk of the poppy just masks the pain and has dangerous side effects as well as being highly addictive. Our medicine helps the bodies healing process. It doesn't have side effects and the awful taste stops it from being addictive," he laughed at his quip. "We don’t need Maesters in The Neck.”

“Clearly not, why isn’t the medicine more popular in the Seven Kingdom?” Arya said and passed the now-empty bowl back to Meera. 

“Call us selfish, but we don’t like to share,” Howland said, smiling.

Arya returned the smile. She straightened herself further then spoke to the two Reeds. “The Crannogmen helped a great deal in the battle with the Unsullied, I could never have broken the Unsullied shield-wall were they not there.”

“Many of my friends died, people I shared bread and salt with, and more besides. _And_ Northmen,” Meera said, her curt tone coming back.

Arya looked at her with gloomy eyes, “I know, I was not expecting the Unsullied to adapt so quickly, I read about them, I saw them fight during the Long Night, I knew they were highly trained and skilled soldiers. But not _that_ good. I calculated that I could break their shield-wall, get to Jon and get back outside the wall then retreat. But the fight was harder and it took longer than I had anticipated, then the Unsullied reformed their shield-wall and adapted to your strikes from behind and above them. They took more lives than I wanted to give them.”

“I don’t blame you, Arya. You were trying to protect your brother, I would have done the same and it’s how war goes sometimes,” Meera said with a warm smile on her face.

“Aye,” Howland added, though he was beaming at his daughter, “war is shit, it never goes how you anticipate.”

Arya nodded and smiled, “I am happy the Reeds and the rest of the Crannogmen are by our side again.”

“Now and always,” Meera said,

“We are loyal to House Stark,” Howland added, turning his smile to Arya.

She regarded Howland a moment, then took her gaze towards Meera. “I was hoping you could tell me more about your journey with Bran, about what happened, about what it’s like beyond the wall. I like to know as much as I can.”

“I thought you said Bran told you?” Meera asked with a look of confusion

“He didn't tell us much, he told us what happened to Rickon, and you all meeting Samwell and Gilly, what happened to Hodor and Summer and Jojen and our uncle Benjen. But not much else. Bran is… difficult to talk to these days…”

“Aye,” Meera responded knowingly, “he is.”

Meera Reed told the story from the beginning, even covering events that Arya already knew of. She told of her and her brother Jojen, finding Bran, Hodor, Osha and little Rickon with their two direwolves, Summer and Shaggy Dog. She spoke of the journey they undertook, how they saw Jon with the Wildlings, how they passed through the wall and when they saw Jon again fighting Night’s Watch deserters. She spoke in great detail of what it was like beyond the wall, to Arya’s great pleasure. Meera spoke of the landscape, the amazing views and the howling of direwolves. She told of how cold it was, the frozen-over water and heavy snowstorms, she even spoke of the trees. Arya hoped one day she could go beyond the wall, perhaps with Jon, maybe even go further North than anyone had ever been, into the Lands of Always Winter. 

“It’s dangerous beyond the wall,” Meera said. “But it has beautiful mountain ranges, covered in thick snow. Great big forests, with the biggest trees you’d ever see. Miles of lands that have been hardly touched by man, wild beast roam it and I am certain I heard direwolves howling. When you look up to the sky at night green lights shoot across the stars, it is amazing, you feel like you’re in another world.”

“I would like to see that,” Arya replied, smiling at the thought.

Meera continued speaking of what happened inside the great tree, the death of Jojen, Summer and Hodor, or Wylis as was his real name. All of which brought tears to her eyes. She told of Benjen and how he was afflicted, how he saved them and took them back to the wall. She finished with their journey back to Winterfell and Meera leaving Bran to go back home to Greywater Watch.

“I left Bran with your sister. She didn’t speak to me though,” Meera finished.

“Jon left Sansa with a lot to deal with,” Arya said, but Meera just hummed in half an agreement.

“Speaking of Jon,” Howland interrupted, “I can see how he and you look alike and get along well. You look a great deal like his mother, like Starks. Same wild attitude as her too.”

“Lyanna Stark? You knew her?” Arya quizzed.

“Aye, I knew her. She defended me at the tourney at Harrenhal,”

Arya’s face narrowed and Howland laughed lightly, “We were younger then, and I was smaller. Being picked on by some squires, Lyanna jumped in and fought them off and then did more after, defending my honour.”

Arya gave a small smirk, “She fought them? What happened after?” She beamed, eager to hear more of her warrior aunt and Jon’s mother. But the tent’s entranced opened, shooting light in and Mikel rushed towards them with a hurried pace.

“Commander,” he began, “riders have arrived. From Lady Sansa. Would you like us to bring them in here?”

Arya glanced around a moment and stopped her gaze at Howland. “Perhaps we can finish this another time.”

“Aye,” he replied plainly.

“No, Mikel,” Arya said grabbing Davos’ walking stick he made her. “I will go to them. I’m bloody sick of laying down, I need to walk around.”

“I don’t suggest—” before Meera could finish, Arya had already begun lifting herself onto her legs, her weight on the walking stick. Meera and Howland stepped to her side holding their hands out making sure she would not fall.

“Mikel… go tell them…. I am coming,” Arya said in a pained voice as she slowly stood upright, lifting herself up with the walking stick in her right hand.

As Mikel rushed out, Arya finally stood on her legs but she felt a heavy swath of dizziness come over her. She put all her weight onto the walking stick so she didn’t fall over, the heavy wood held her though the world became a blur while blood rushed back down to her limbs. The pain in her leg coursed through but she gritted her teeth, resisting the hurt, just as she remembered doing while Meryn Trant whipped her incredibly hard, back in Braavos when she took the role of a young whore to kill him. She let the pain and the dizzy spell run its course, closing her eyes, staying motionless and breathing slowly. The two Reeds asked if she was okay, Arya simply nodded her head in response then after a moment of slow breathing, she opened her eyes.

“My clothes and armour?” she asked.

Howland stepped across the room to a wooden chest and opened it. Inside were clothes, Arya’s boots, gloves and her leather armour.

“Meera, could you help dress the Commander?” Howland said to his daughter.

Meera nodded and grabbed the clothes out of the chest as Howland stepped out of the tent. Arya, with Meera’s help, took off her cut breeches and slowly pulled on the new ones. Gritting disgustingly as she slowly pulled the breeches over the thick linen bandages on her thigh, followed by her boots. She wrapped a grey cotton kerchief around her neck and then pulled on the leather doublet, thigh tassets and gloves. Her armour had been washed and cleaned of the ash and soot from the fires of Drogon, but her doublet still wore a visible blood stain around the collar, running down the breast. As delicate as Meera was, each motion Arya made as she dressed, was met with discomfort from her deep wound. Meera tied up the centre of Arya’s doublet, each piece of armour and tassets and made sure Arya was content with its fitting. Arya took a few slow deliberate steps forward, testing herself, then looked at Meera.

“Thank you, for all your help. I won’t forget this. My family owes you and yours a great deal,” said Arya.

Meera smiled and stepped to Arya’s left “Already walking, you heal quick,” 

“I’m a Stark,” said Arya plainly and smiled back.

She took the following step with her injured right leg, keeping its weight off the ground with the walking stick and she thought of the trails that her siblings went through and healed from. Bran falling from the broken tower and living, then his journey north, all the scars he has and has healed from. Another step and she thought of Jon’s trials at the Night’s Watch and their murder of him and how he healed from that, thanks to Melisandre. Something else Arya owed to the Red Woman. There were times Arya wished she could have talked to Melisandre, properly, but those days were long gone. She took another slow step forward, the stories Sansa told her of what she went through came to Arya. All the terrible things Sansa endured, in King’s Landing, in the Vale and even the horror she underwent in Winterfell, their home. As Arya took another step she cursed at herself that she wasn’t there to protect Sansa, Bran or even Jon, and the rest of her family. Her mother and father, Robb and his wife and child that Arya had never met. Sweet little Rickon, too. But again, those days were long gone and she could do nothing to change them. But she knew that she could protect her living family now and would do whatever she could to keep them safe.

_I’m not going to let a little cut in my leg stop me._

Her pace picked up and she ambled out of the tent, Meera Reed flanking her. As she crossed the threshold the tents entranced parted for her and mid-morning sunlight gleamed brightly and she narrowed her eyes to adjust to the light. A cold gust of winter wind swept through as Arya gazed her eyes around.  Cloudless blue skies framed tall green trees in the distance of the camp, her eyes came down to the white and black and grey army tents, the smoke of fires from the night before rose into the blue sky. She swept her eyes slowly across those in front of her. Davos, Howland and Gendry stood to the side with Lord Manderly, but more eyes gazed at her.

It had appeared to her that everyone in the entire camp knew she was coming and had stopped what they were doing. All that were close to her medical tent looked towards her, either smiling wide or gaping stupidly. Men and woman, soldiers, lords and smiths. Maesters, healers, commoners, builders, stewards, stable hands and masters-at-arms of the camp all seemed to look at her as she took a step forward onto the sparse green grass layered on dirt that was flecked by melted snow. She drew her eyes up the mass staring at her, she did not like all this attention.

“You all acknowledge me as Warden of the North?” Arya boomed to the gathered crowd.

The crowd responded with whoops, “aye” and “yes,” and resounding shouts of agreement.

Arya nodded slowly, “I gave orders to my lords, which I am sure you good men are undertaking at their command?”

Again, shouts of “aye” and “yes” from the crowd. A shout of “glad you’re alive, Commander,” came from the crowd and a resounding boom of voices cheering followed.

Arya’s lips went into a smile but she caught it quickly before anyone could see and made her lips narrow, “I appreciate your loyalty to me and House Stark… and your concern for my health. But I don’t recall giving the order to gawk at me.” 

Ayra swept her eyes at the crowd as they looked about apprehensively.

“You heard the Warden, back to work!” Lord Manderly roared and one by one they parted and went back to their tasks.

She cast her eyes to her right and saw Aberdale, standing guard. “Aberdale, I need a weapon.”

He nodded and went behind the tent, quickly returning with her sword belt and her Needle and Dark Sister in their scabbards. “They’ been cleaned an’ sharpened, Commander,” he passed her the belt.

“I said a few days to heal, not one day,” Davos chided, stepping up to her with Gendry and Howland besides.

“Seven hells, Arya,” Gendry added, “you were basically dead a day ago. What will you need your weapons now for?” 

“Never know when I might need to threaten someone with a blade at their throat,” Arya muttered, wrapping the belt around her waist and she felt the presence and stink of arrogance, of Maester Brennard as he came forward, casting his disbelieving view at her.

“Lady Stark!” he began, “you cannot walk around so soon, you need to lay down and heal, you need to rest. You cannot be doing this! You need milk of the poppy!”

Arya finished tightening the belt until it felt snug, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Mikel had returned to guide her to Sansa’s messenger. She took a step to Brennard and narrowed her dark eyes at him with contempt.

“Do you hear me, my lady!” he blurted, “you can’t—”

Arya lifted her walking stick as quick as she could and jabbed the end of it into Maester Brennards throat, the old man grasped at his neck and began coughing heavily in pain. Arya placed the end of the stick back on the ground, resuming her weight on it and rapidly drew Needle from its scabbard. As she unsheathed the thin sword and swept it across, she made the tip loop into the Maesters chain link around Brennards neck and she shimmied the blade so the chain wrapped around it causing it to tighten around his throat. She pulled the sword back with force, letting the chain reel Brennard forward and Arya smashed the end of her thick walking stick hard against the arrogant man’s weak knees and he collapsed onto the grass, one hand clasping at his throat, the other jumping between his two sore knees.

Arya felt the eyes of the entire camp gaze at her as she leaned back on the walking stick and pointed Needle forward, holding it at the tip of the Maesters throat, she looked down at him with furious eyes while he sat cowering. His hand parted from his neck and rose into the air. The very tip of the Needle touched his skin, a trickle of blood ran down his gullet and he swallowed deeply, his eyes wide with distress.

“If you ever call me a Lady, or tell me what I can or can’t do again,” she said, her voice full of ice but commanding, she made it resound so everyone could hear. “I will cut your tongue out myself and add it to your Maesters chain!”

She pulled Needle back, unravelling it from the chain and sheathed it, “Lord Manderly, see to your Maester. Meera, thank you again. If you have any needs, speak to me. Mikel, lead me to the rider, Ser Davos, Lord Baratheon, Lord Reed follow me. Aberdale, join us.”

Meera smiled again and nodded before walking off to her fellow Crannogmen. Wyman Manderly sauntered over to his Maester and heaved the old man up harshly all the while cursing at him. Aberdale stepped up beside Arya as she slowly made her way through the camp, following Mikel to Sansa’s rider and gritting her teeth through the pain coming from her thigh. Davos, Gendry and Howland Reed following closely behind her.

The Lord of the Stormlands, Lord of House Seaworth, the Lord of Greywater Watch and the Warden of the North made slow progress through the Northern and Vale armies camp. Many people looked to them as they passed, they smiled or nodded at Arya, said hello, called her “the Hero of Winterfell”, or “Warden,” or “Commander.” or just simply Arya. She smiled uneasily at a few but kept her eyes forward as she moved.

“These people respect you,” Davos said walking beside her.

“I don’t like the attention,” she replied.

“Comes with the territory.”

“I didn’t want this _territory,_ ” Arya reproached.

“Aye,” Davos considered her a moment as she limped slowly, “but sometimes, you need to step up, you need to make a decision or do something that forces you into what you don’t want. For the greater good, and so you can protect those you love. You an’ Jon know this better than anyone.”

They approached a small mass of men near the north-east edge of the camp by the Kingsroad, a few Knights of the Vale, as well as Lord Royce, surrounded Northern soldiers who had dismounted from their horses. In the centre Arya spotted a young man with thick black hair and a round face wearing a dark red padded doublet, a fine castle-forged longsword rested in its scabbard at his waist.

“Hold on, I fink I saw you fightin’ at Win’erfell,” Arya heard a Knight of the Vale say to the young man as she came closer. “Wa’s ya name again?”

“That is Podrick Payne,” she said, looking at the young man. “Loyal squire to Ser Brienne of Tarth, a great warrior, a good man and a friend to House Stark.”

Podrick Payne greeted her with his wide, goofy contagious smile as he recognised Arya and the lords following her. She could not help return his smile and offered her hand to him. 

He took it in his still grinning, “Good to see you, Arya. My lords,” 

They parted hands and Arya measured him a moment. “I would have figured you’d be more than a messenger for my sister.”

“Oh, I offered to do it, my la… er… Warden.”

“Offered?”

“Well, I hadn’t really been doing much on our journey south and Ser Brienne told me I need some experience leading. When Lady Sansa said she would need a messenger and he would be leading some men that would protect each other in case they ran into trouble. I offered to do it.”

Arya nodded, “What news do you bring?”

“Okay…” Podrick raised his eyes to the blue sky as he tried to remember Sansa’s message. “Just before leaving Winterfell, Lady Sansa received the raven regarding the battle with the Unsullied and what happened to you. She gave orders for the retinue to make quick pace but Lady Sansa knew a few riders would be quicker than her large procession, so she ordered us to ride hard and to bring this message to you with supplies, mostly healing items for you, if you need them, Arya.”

Podrick paused and took a deep breath, before continuing. “She said that she was meeting your uncle Edmure Tully and your cousin Robin Arryn at the Inn at the Crossroads. She says she has two hundred Northmen with her, one hundred and fifty of those are soldiers that are capable of fighting. She said that Lord Robin could only bring a few hundred knights, the rest would stay to protect the Vale and Lord Edmure could only bring a few thousand Riverlanders. She says they will fight besides House Stark and follow your commands as Warden of the North.”

“Uncle Edmure could only bring _a few_  thousand men?” Arya chastened.

“Lady Sansa said it is because most of them are still scattered after Riverrun fell, or they didn’t answer your uncle’s call because he gave Riverrun up to Ser Jaime.” Podrick answered, happy with himself.

“Aye, she’s probably right,” Arya ventured as she gazed around at nothing in particular, thinking to herself. She felt the mass of lords, knights and soldiers looking at her for orders. “She is probably quite a few days away from the inn, then a couple more days from there to here. Lord Royce.”

The tower of a man stepped forward, holding his chin high. “Commander?”

“Take a few of your knights to the Inn at the Crossroads as an honour guard for Sansa, Lord Edmure and Lord Robin and guide them back here.”

“As you say,” Royce said, bowing to Arya.

“Aberdale,” Arya called, and he stepped forward from behind and stood beside her and Podrick. “You’ve fought loyally for House Stark since the Battle of the Bastards. You’ve fought for Jon, you’ve protected Sansa, and you’ve stayed by my side. During the battle with the Unsullied, I saw you lead a group of men through the break in the Unsullied shield-wall I made. You did so to protect Jon as Unsullied swarmed around him. Now answer me this, my sister has not named a Captain of her Household Guard, has she?”

“Nay, Warden, “Aberdale said in his thick northern accent. “Cap’n Eddin died during the Long Night, an’ as you say, Lady Sansa has no’ named ano’er since.”

“Sansa named you into her guard because she trusts you to defend her,” Arya said, and straightened herself. “As Warden of the North, I name you Captain, of the Lady of Winterfell’s Household Guard.”

Aberdale’s brown eyes went wide, and his mouth that was framed by his thick and long beard gaped without noise. He fell onto a knee in front of Arya, his head low staring at the grass.

“Warden… I…”

“You will serve her well, as her Captain.”

Aberdale swallowed and lifted his eyes to Arya, “Warden, allow me tah guard ya. While yer leg heals.”

“No,” Arya said plainly, and Aberdale furrowed his eyebrows at her. “You will get off your knee for a start, I am not a Queen. You will take Podrick and his men to some warm food and drink and make sure every need of theirs is met.”

Aberdale rose to his feet but looked about trying to hide his displeasure.

“Do you have a problem with my orders?” Arya questioned.

“Aye,” he said curtly. “Ya make me Cap’n, bu’ I’m tah do nay more than a bloody steward. Like I’m punished, eh.”

Arya gave a short snort of laughter, “Sansa said you didn’t mince your words. This is no punishment. Once you have seen to Podrick, you are to pick five men from the army, men that you trust that you will command. If they turn out to be untrustworthy or hurt my sister in any way, I will kill them and then I will kill you.”

A small smirk came across Aberdales lips.

“Once you do that,” Arya continued, “you will join up with Lord Royce and ride to Sansa. You will tell her what I have done and then stay by her side, you are the Captain of Lady Sansa’s Household Guard, _Captain_ Aberdale. Not mine.”

His smirk turned into a wide smile, “As ya command. M’lord Podrick, come wit’ me.”

Podrick took a step forward, "Also, Arya. Your brother Bran is coming with Lady Sansa."

She nodded at him silently and gave him her dismissal. She watched as Captain Aberdale guided Podrick and his men through the mass than through the encampment. She turned her gaze north-west and spotted in the distance to the far left of the Kingsroad amidst tall trees blowing in the cold wind, a high hill which overlooked their camp, a good spot to survey her armies encampment.

“Ser Davos,” Arya said, staring at the hill, “bring me my horse.”

* * *

 

Though nobody dared to say anything, Arya knew how it looked when she tried to mount her horse with her injured leg, needing the help of others. But she was never one to care about the opinions of people regarding her, and she was not going to start concerning herself about it now. The white mare that carried Arya, which she had still yet to name, moseyed happily as they ascended the hill, passing through the tall tree with Gendry beside her, Davos Seaworth and Howland Reed close behind, all mounted on their own horses.

They reached the top of the hill, coming out of the trees to a clearing. The sunlight warming Arya’s bones from the cold winter chill as she slowly dismounted from her horse, Gendry and Howland helping her down. She pulled out her walking stick from the saddle and stepped forward, looking down at their encampment and gazing at the destroyed King’s Landing in the distance.

The Northern and Vale armies encampment spanned over a mile wide on open land, ending a few hundred yards before the Kingsroad, with sections for smithing, horses, areas for cooks and hunting. The grey and white tents swayed gently in the breeze. To the east of the camp, on the other side of the Kingsroad lay a vast dense forest. The mile-long road from the camps to King’s Landing was clear open land, a gift for a cavalry charge and Arya knew it.

“We don’t have any formidable defences against a Dothraki charge,” she spoke to the others.

“ _If_ they charge, aye, we don’t,” Davos said.

“They’ll ride hard, from King’s Landing without warning,” Arya began. “They will spread out with no formation, like they did against the Army of the Dead and against the Lannisters and Tarly’s in The Reach. They will smash into our men, who won’t be prepared. The Dothraki will ride fearlessly, shooting their bows from horseback and hollering, bringing fear into our army, once they have broken through our lines they will torch our camps sowing more chaos. Then the Unsullied will come and clean up the rest.”

“How do you know what the Dothraki will do? What makes you so certain?” Gendry asked her.

“When I found out Jon was returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her armies and dragons. I made an effort to read up on them as much as I could. Out of books and scrolls about them from Winterfell's library, asked our Maester, got Sansa to order the other Lords of the North to bring books and ask their Maesters. I asked Bran and studied the Unsullied and Dothraki from the shadows when they stayed in Winterfell.”

“Find out much?” Howland said.

Arya looked to him, “The Maesters didn’t know much more than one or another, the books in the library had little information that could help, was mostly about their culture and not how they fought. I only received two books from the other lords and one I already had in Winterfell, the other was regarding their history of raping and pillaging across Essos. I read all the books I had, but it wasn’t much help. Samwell Tarly helped a little when I asked him, he read a book on them when he was in the Night’s Watch. But most of the information I got was from Bran or from watching them when they camped and how they fought during the Long Night.”

“The North’s libraries have never been the most profound,” Howland said smirking.

“You studied them like someone would study an enemy,” Davos ventured.

“Aye,” she replied, “I knew Sansa was not going to get on well with the Dragon Queen. I knew there would be problems because I knew Sansa would not kneel. I wanted to be prepared in case it came to crossing swords. Everything I found out about the Dothraki and Unsullied I shared with Sansa, knowledge of your enemies is a powerful weapon.”

“Well, you were right we did end up crossin’ swords, just not the way you had imagined. But at any rate, did you find anything out about dragons that could help us?” Davos asked, “Honestly I am more concerned about Drogon showing up somewhere and burning us all to fuckin' cinders.”

“I’ve learnt that they are big fuckers and they’re tough to kill,” Arya concluded with confidence. "I'm surprised the Dothraki haven't already attacked."

"What makes you so sure that they will?" Queried Davos.

"Because I would," she returned her view back to the tall trees on the hill and took a few slow steps past their horses towards them.

She looked up and down the trees long thin trunks, lined heavily with thick coarse bark. Their leaves dressed in sombre russets and covered with layers of snow, melting gently in the winter sun. She drew Dark Sister in her left and limped closer to the trees, Howland, Davos and Gendry following her. When she finally reached the base of a tree she started cautiously cutting off flakes of amber from the bark, letting a clear substance ooze into her hand as well. She turned her head finding Gendry.

"Come here and hold out your hand."

He obeyed her and walked next to her, making a well with his hands. She placed in the amber flakes and let the clear ooze drip from her fingers and blade into his hands. She smiled to herself when she noticed a perplexed look mark Gendry's face and a fleck of revulsion.

"Davos, Howland," Arya said, wiping the remnants off her fingers. "Start a small fire."

Arya watched patiently while Davos and Howland sparked the fire from bits of sticks and dried leaves in the clearing of the hill. Gendry stood beside her, looking at the material he held.

"What's so special about this?" He asked Arya, tapping through the contents in his hand with his fingers.

"You'll see."

The small flames took birth from the sparks of Davos' knife on stone and began slowly engulfing the sticks and leaves. Howland and Davos stood back from the fire and looked to Arya, she placed her hand on Gendry's arm.

"Throw that stuff in, then get back quickly," she said and after offering Arya a bemused look, Gendry ambled towards the fire.

He threw the material from his hands, and when it made contact with the small burning sticks and leaves, the flames lit up sudden and soared high. Arya felt the heat and the potent smell that filled the air. 

"Seven hells!" Gendry jumped back from the flames in shock. "What is that stuff, you almost caught me on fire."

"Those trees," Arya said, pointing casually back towards the dense tall snow-laden leaves, " are Soldier Pines of the Crownlands. They produce resin that used to make pitch, very flammable. That's what you just held."

"Coulda' told me."

"That would ruin the surprise," Arya smirked at Gendry.

Davos walked up to her, making an effort to avoid the fire, "You recognised what tree that walking stick I made you is from, now this. You know a lot about trees."

"The benefits of a castle education," she grinned. Then her face went serious as she looked at Davos. "I want men to cut this resin from these Soldier Pines. Get us much as we possibly can, fill tins, cups, pails, tubs and saddlebags. Keep it out of the sun and away from fire. Make sure the men clean themselves proper when they are done, or they will they will set themselves alight by a campfire and if they are stupid enough to let that happen, I will let them burn a short while, and let them suffer the pain before I order them to be doused and tended to."

"Aye, I don't need a castle education to get that done," Davos grinned. "I'll make sure to emphasis that last bit."

"Then I want the trees cut down and logged, same as they did in Winterfell for the caltrops. Enough so it covers the entire southern side of the encampment."

"What are you thinking?" Howland asked.

Arya didn't answer at first, she limped away from them, looking towards King's Landing. She regarded the smoking rubble of a city intently, she knew that she had to stop the Dothraki charge, or at least counteract it, else wise the Northern and Vale armies she was now in charge of, responsible for, would lose thousands of men. As she mulled on this she felt a sudden agony in her thigh throb deeply, followed by an intense burn of ice around her neck and wrist, where the scars of the Night King were. She groaned and gritted her teeth, closed her eyes and griped the direwolf walking stick tightly. The torment stayed a while and she heard Gendry's foot steps as he came to her side, he placed a hand on her arm and mumbled something that she ignored. The pain began to mellow and it made her strangely think of Jon as a prisoner in the now hopeless city, herself hoping he was being treated well. Thinking of him helped ease the pain. She even began to think of Tyrion, remembering he also resides in King's Landing as a prisoner. Perhaps they shared a cell, but she doubted it.

Her agony subsided and the thoughts of Jon and Tyrion as prisoners, brought her mind to Bran and the vision he had shown her, the past she watched and the cryptic words he gave her. She rubbed her forehead in frustration, still uncertain of what to make of his vision and her half-remembered dreams. She conceited that she would talk to Bran once when he arrived with Sansa, if she ever got the opportunity. She sighed heavily and slowly turned back to face the three men.

"I have many things on my mind, Lord Howland. But first, you all get this done as I have ordered. In the meantime, I've lost weight and muscle, my body is weak and things are still uncertain. I need to eat, train and get more knowledge."


	13. King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A city smoulders and prisoners wallow in their pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so much longer than I anticipated. Consider the time between chapters to be longer as my life is just getting busier.
> 
> Thank you for your kind words!

**Annē Laehurlion**

Night had fallen, and gentle snow layered the smoking rubbled King's Landing that still smelt of death and burnt flesh, though it had been over a week since Queen Daenerys Stormborn conquered the city. Annē Laehurlion marched in concert with his squad of fellow Unsullied soldiers, his steps falling in rhythm with theirs and he gritted his teeth, keeping weight on his spear with every step. They patrolled through the city, per Commander Torgo Nudho's orders, letting the living know who was in control. Whimpers of commoners came from the half-destroyed building they passed through the district of King's Landing known as Flea Bottom, the survivors still mourned their dead, some even still holding them in their arms. Several commoners began throwing miscellaneous objects from their homes clattering near, or on the procession of soldiers. Broken cups, tin pails, cutlery, pewter plates and more fell on the ground harmlessly or landed on top of the black spiked helms of the Unsullied, yet they marched on unaffected. A young man, covered in dirt and blood, no older than one and twenty — ran out from his home in front of the Unsullied march. The stupid boy raised above his head a rusted iron axe, his ragged clothes covered in blood, likely of his loved ones, his eyes red and his face wet with tears. He screamed and charged carelessly at the soldiers. An Unsullied at the front stepped forward and deftly dodged the boy's harmless swing. As the axe swung down, cutting nothing but air, the Unsullied in one swift movement impaled his spear through the boy's heart. The boy screamed a heartbreaking cry, and he fell to the ground in a heap, dead. The Unsullied stepped back into their formation and continued their patrol, as they passed the dead boy, his old iron axe lying pathetically at his side, Annē Laehurlion couldn't help but feel remorse and pity for the boy and felt sorry for what happened to him and his city. The Unsullied knew he shouldn't be harbouring these thoughts, but he did. As they continued their march within the streets of Flea Bottom, through the rubble-filled streets, passed melted stone buildings — the distant sound of Dothraki, hollering cheers and shouts came to Annē Laehurlion's ears. The Dothraki could not be controlled by Torgo Nudho, they no longer saw him as their commander, and in celebrating their victory, as was their nature, they took what they wished from the city — gold, trinkets, baubles or people to enslave, murder or rape.

After several circuits of patrols through the district, the procession of Unsullied finally reached an intersection that met Flea Bottom with the main street of King's Landing that led from the Gate of the Gods to the Red Keep. The almost destroyed keep towered ominously on their left upon Aegon's High Hill, Annē Laehurlion gazed towards its rubbled towers basking in the moonlight — somehow still standing despite the destruction. The march stopped at the centre of the intersection due to a sudden whooping that came from their right. Six Dothraki horsemen appeared galloping up the street, stopping their small charge before the Unsullied. The lead rider held a rope, at its end tied around wrists was a young girl, her face with its dark brown beady eyes was swollen, blood trickled from her lips and her bronze skin bruised at her arms and legs and Annē Laehurlion shuddered to think where else. The girls dirty dark brown hair was matted with blood, and her tattered garments that barely clung onto her otherwise naked skin was cut and covered in dirt, soot and ash. Even from the back of the patrol, Annē Laehurlion could hear her whimpering tears, a mounted Dothraki besides her must have also heard, he spat a word in his tongue and kicked her hard in the side, She yelped in pain and fell to the dirt ground. Annē Laehurlion felt the anger rise in his heart at what he saw, he wanted to throw his spear at the Dothraki, feel his dagger slit their throats. But this night he had other purposes, and killing Dothraki was not one of them, there was a bigger picture to observe.

The lead Dothraki smiled derisively at her suffering and turned his gaze toward the Unsullied.

"Mra ki akka!" he spat.

The Unsullied formation stood motionlessly before the Dothraki saying nothing in return. The Dothraki leader stepped his horse forward, his face full of scorn.

"Es havazhaan, janos."

The city simpering under the night's snowfall still filled with whimpers of survivors, howls of dogs and cheers of other Dothraki resounding through the city. But the intersection fell quiet, and Annē Laehurlion could feel the tension between the two foreign forces that met there. The Dothraki blamed the Unsullied for the death of the one person that bound them as allies — Queen Daenerys. They no longer saw the Astapori army as their equal.

"Dovaogēdys!" The Unsullied captain shouted finally, "ezīmagon!"

Unsullied separated into two and shifted to the side, allowing a big enough divide for the Dothraki to pass-through. Annē Laehurlion was slower on the uptake compared to his brothers, thanks to his battle wound, when he took his position — he clenched his jaw, swallowing the pain and put his weight on his spear. The Dothraki shouted and sped past, the young girl suddenly fell down again from the jerk of the horse, and she wailed in agony as she was dragged along the dirt ground behind the galloping steeds.

He felt the anger issue again as his eyes followed the poor bronze-skinned girl struggling against the rope pulling her. But the sight and reprieve from pain for Annē Laehurlion did not last long as shortly after, the patrol resumed their original formation and made for the Red Keep, he took his position at the very back and followed. As they marched up the main street, the Dothraki riders in the distance hollered in chorus with the screams of the young girl, and they peeled off into a side street and out of sight heading towards Eel Alley.

Despite the burning aches, Annē Laehurlion kept pace with his Unsullied brothers as they stepped along the broad dirt street heading closer to the Red Keep, he did his best to ignore the wails of the girl that echoed down the smaller streets and alleys. They entered the plaza at the base of the Red Keep, where the battle with the Northerners occurred, lead by the wild Stark girl. She had breached their shield-wall, which was not expected — using cunning and a fierce battle fury that possessed her. Though they fought back the Northern attack, the event gave Commander Torgo Nudho pause, opting to not kill the betrayer — Jon Snow. Agreeing to seek justice, without the need for a war that the Unsullied were not certain to win. The same, however, could not be said for the Dothraki, they lusted for battle and vengeance.

Annē Laehurlion focused himself as they passed the burnt and crumbled buildings that lined the plaza, from where the Northerner's surprise attacked from above. Remembering his objective, Annē Laehurlion stepped deftly away from the march and hid behind a still-standing wall as his company went on forward without him. He stood in his position for a moment, making sure no one was around to see him and taking the much-needed respite from his injury. Content he was ready, he took a deep breath and began padding through the rubble of buildings. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow, or rather as silent as his injured body could allow. As he continued his lurk within broken buildings, under the moonlight — he began to hear voices, speaking in Valyrian. He slowed his pace making his footfalls more silent, adjusting his gait and placing his foot gently on the ground at a slight angle heel first, as this one was taught in a previous life. Ignoring the throbbing ache of constant pain, he continued inextricably towards the allure of the voices. _Information. Knowledge._ He thought, and he stopped, rested his back against a half-fallen wall, pricked up his ears and closed his eyes, letting his other senses take over, as he was trained, in a previous life. He smelt the burning wood, flesh and stone from the city, he felt the winter chill touch his skin and the hairs on his body spur up, and the gooseprickles rise and tingle. He heard the march of Unsullied in the distance, the wails of survivors and the roars of Dothraki, and he listened much more clearly, to the words spoken nearby, in Valyrian.

"Tetan lēda bona?" he heard a deep voice say

"Kesīr," another voice responded, this one gravelly and sharp.

Annē Laehurlion adjusted himself to get a better view of the two men speaking, he gazed through the burnt building out into the plaza where to Unsullied soldiers sat in the dirt eating, their helmets on the ground beside them as they rested their backs against an exterior wall of a half-ruined house.

"Se Dōthrāki emagon daor kelitan," the gravelly-voiced man said

"Issi bāne bartōro, ribazmoqitta," the deep voice offered.

"Daor jēda ēva se anne āeksȳti emagon daor nābēmagon jelmōñsȳt."

"Kostagon kessi, jaelzi naejot ossēnagon se Stārksȳt se zālagon Vinterveli syt skoros Jon Snow gōntan."

"Byka syt īlva," the two men laughed suddenly, and the one with the deep voice rose to his feet.

"Jēda naejot jikagon, Zōbrie Grēges," he said as he picked his helmet off the ground then grabbed his spear and shield that was leaning against the wall.

Annē Laehurlion watched them march together out of the plaza, as they passed the threshold, he cast his view towards the long staircase leading towards the Red Keep, and his mind raced with the words the two Unsullied said.

 _Vinterveli, Jon Snow, Dōthrāki, zālagon, ossēnagon, nābēmagon, Stārksȳt_ These words he knew and these words made him think the worst.

He steeled himself, there would be time to deal with that later, tonight his goal was still a ways away, and the square had several Unsullied on guard or just on reprieve as the other two were. Though the plaza was large enough to fit in two armies of thousands of men, he could sneak by and make his way up the long staircase, but he was not looking forward to the many more stairs he must climb to get to his intent. Yet he wanted to see what had happened, he wanted answers, and he wanted to know if there was still a threat from the winged mass. Annē Laehurlion sighed heavily, despite the winter chill and the settling snow, a damp sweat covered his brow. He took off his helmet and brushed the back of his hand across his forehead, replacing his helmet he gritted his teeth and made for the Red Keep.

He made a stolid pace through the Red Keep, through its destroyed halls and crumbled stairs, stealing past the rare Unsullied guards that were present and clenching his teeth, his jaw and his fist against every surge of pain that crescendoed evermore throughout his body before finally reaching the large entryway to the long, historic hall. A deeply exhausted sigh radiated from his mouth as he stopped and leaned himself against the archway. He felt the affliction searing through him, making his body and bones weary and sore and his head pounded like a thousand spears shafts smashing shields. He rummaged carelessly underneath his armour and pulled out a small leather pouch and prised out an even smaller bottle. He removed it's wax seal and immediately drank the herby foul liquid, violently shaking his head from the taste that came with it. His suffering wound hammered like blacksmith anvil's thunderous echo, and he took a long moments break, resting his head, breathing slowly and letting the potion take effect.

His respite did not feel like enough; he longed for comfort and relief. Yet he knew he had a responsibility and needed to find the truth. He stood up straight turned to the large, high ceilinged room and slowly entered it. Snow and ash layered the floor, and several huddled footsteps marked a path. Pillars that lined the hall stood half-destroyed, or completely obliterated, iron braziers lay toppled over, others melted. Moonlight exploded through the massive destroyed wall to his right where the light snowfall continued. The half-moons ghostly radiance lit the object of all this destruction, obsession and misery. The idea that caused years of war and hundreds of thousands of lives. In a lump of melted swords; drooped the Iron Throne, resembling no chair, let alone a throne. It lay in a sad slump of melted iron which oozed down the stairs of the dais in the Throne Room of the Red Keep. The stone wall behind it was marked with dragonfire before breaking open to the night sky, the destruction reached the ceiling and joined the right walls massive destroyed opening where Blackwater Bay could be seen.

Annē Laehurlion paused his slow walk when he noticed a deep red stain in the snow, just before the stairs leading up to the dais. He pondered the sight a moment before his eyes caught the sight of large animalistic footprints that led a short path from the stain to the massive destroyed hole in the wall on the right.

"Drogon," Annē Laehurlion said in the Common Tongue, affected with a thick Braavosi accent.

His body's throbbing ache abated slightly making it easier for him to walk and his head no longer pounded. He approached the bloodstain and slowly kneeled down on a knee, making sure to keep as much weight on his spear as he could. He touched the blood gently, putting his palm in the snow and ash.

"Daenerys," he whispered.

He rose to his feet and walked to the base of the stairs and looked intently at the melted Iron Throne.

_How could something like that, cause so much pain._

He observed it, observed the hall and the destruction. Daenerys Targaryen had died here, her blood scarred the remnants of what held her life's desire, her goal and her misery. Her ending came from the man who realised the threat she was to him and his sisters, and the awful things she had done or could do. He conceded to what was necessary and understood his duty.

"Jon..." someone else's softer voice emanated from Annē Laehurlion when he spoke that name.

* * *

**Jon**

Snow cascaded gently outside his small, dank cell. He viewed the flakes falling, from his little alcove barred window that was the only source of light and fresh cold air. He pressed his knees against his chest and rubbed his arms furiously as the chill overcame him. The Unsullied had relieved him of his armour and his sword — Longclaw. They had only given him tattered rags and a thin brown shred of cloth for bedding. Like other nights, this one had been slow and full of restless sleep as the cold perforated his bones, but he did not complain, he did not resist the cold or blame another for his predicament. He was defeated, his army sacked a city. He watched men sworn to him and Sansa — kill and attempt to rape common folk trying to flee. He witnessed the woman he loved succumb to her anger, her jealousy, her contempt, her rage, her own fear and her power. And he watched her burn a city down. And he... he had to kill her. Murder her. He felt wrong, hollow. Cowardly. He welcomed every inch of pain and biting cold that hit him. As the cold gnawed through his skin and chewed his bones with its biting chill, his thoughts went to Arya and he worried for her. He lost Dany but he could not bear losing Arya. He remembered her ghostly face pale with the presence of death when he held her in his arms as she... Arya had come to King's Landing intent on killing Cersei, but Dany got their first. _Maybe we should have sent Arya sooner,_ Jon thought. _Maybe all of this could have been avoided, and maybe Arya wouldn't be lying somewhere dying, if not already dead._ He felt a wetness fall from his eyes and tasted its salty tang when it reached his lips.

He had watched Arya lead an army in battle, for him. He watched her break an Unsullied shield-wall. Witnessing for the first time her skill with swords, her speed, her tenacity in battle. Something he never thought he would see. He saw her use Longclaw as he used Needle. He observed her kill Unsullied with ease, even killing one in mid-air. But then she became surrounded, and Jon saw a spear rip through her thigh, and he remembered the tears in her eyes and his own as he held onto her while her life began to fade.

"Arya..." Jon whispered in a croaky dry voice.

He shook his head violently, and his raggedy hair and unkempt beard itched, he scratched at them harshly, he felt the cold penetrate his lungs and fill his throat with a terse, dry pain. He hacked a bare cough and tried to use saliva to moisten his lips, but the dryness offered little. Jon resigned to his fate and laid his head against the cold stone wall. He hadn't moved from his position since midday when he received the last piece of food he had, a portion of mouldy cheese and a small cup of warm water. Now he felt the churning pain of hunger turn in his stomach, and with the bitter cold, tired eyes, his dry mouth, aching bones and throbbing head, Jon knew how weak his body had become, and he did not care. Suddenly the heavy iron door opened with a keening creak, and an Unsullied soldier walked in slowly. He entered Jon's cell, closing the door behind him and locking it secure, the olive-skinned and black armoured man placed his shield on the ground, leaning against the wall and removed his helmet throwing it down beside the shield. He turned to face Jon revealing a bald head and a round, wrinkled face with brown eyes and a small nose, he offered Jon a friendly smile.

"You look like shit," the man said with a heavy accent, his weight leaning against his spear.

Jon narrowed his dark eyes, giving a confused stare at the soldier. The Unsullied's smile widened into a hideous grin, and he reached his free hand to his face grasping the skin under his chin and pulled.

Jon had seen many things in his life; Night's Watchmen awaken from the dead with unnatural ice blue eyes. He has seen giants riding mammoths pound the Wall then get cut down like they were nothing by Stannis and his army. He witnessed skeletal undead horses upon which rode white walkers with their pale skin, and demon faces lead an army of thousands and decimate a Free Folk settlement. He saw and rode dragons that were thought extinct, bring their destruction, raining fire upon the earth. He saw an undead dragon almost burn him alive with its blue dragonfire and his uncle Benjen somehow saved by the children of the forest, came and save Jon's life. But this, this was something Jon's imagination could never summon. The man incredulously to Jon removed the skin from his face, and suddenly what was standing before Jon was no longer a man. A hazy shimmer surrounded the person like the haze of heat from a fire. It distorted the view, shapes appeared, skin changed colour, and when the haze disappeared, the person had shortened considerably. Upon the once bald head came dark hair that fell upon... a young woman's shoulders.

Jon's eyes widened, he felt his face grimace with a complete look of stupidity. He eyed... Arya... the Stark he loved the most — standing before him in oversized Unsullied armour and clothing, leaning against an Unsullied spear wearing a cheeky grin on her face.

"I'm not gonna pull off another one. It's me, Jon," Arya said, in her normal voice, familiar to him.

Jon bounded off the small stool towards her, but his weak legs buckled underneath him, and he collapsed to his knees his hands falling to the stone floor. The effort caused Jon to cough heavily, suddenly he felt the warmth of a hand around his cheek. He lifted his heavy head to see Ayra kneeling before him, gazing with her large, dark eyes wearing a sad but sympathetic smile.

"What have they done to you, big brother," she said softly to him.

He forced himself up and wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her fiercely. He felt her return the embrace, her arms tightly bound about his neck. A gust of cold chill blew through the barred alcove window, but it did not bother Jon anymore, as Arya's presence warmed his bones, warmed his heart and gave him strength. He felt the drops once again fall from his eyes, but he smiled as they were tears of happiness. Jon and Arya pulled back from each other, he saw Arya's own dark eyes wet with emotion, and he cupped her face in his hands, he grinned wide and laughed.

"What are you doing here?" Jon finally asked as the two had been looking and smiling at each other for a considerable time.

"I wanted to see you," she replied with a wide toothy smile.

Jon grinned from ear to ear, but as another thought came to his mind his grin mellowed and his lips when thin. "You haven't come to free me, have you?"

"No, I want to, but I can't. Freeing you would piss Grey Worm off a bit too much. I don't want to risks a war we might not win, we have do it the proper way. Sansa's way. I just wanted to see you, I wanted to talk to you."

Jon laughed again and hugged her once more. He heard her giggle in his ear and gently push him back.

"Easy, Jon," she said, smiling, "my leg is killing me, and I'm exhausted. Help me out of this armour, it's heavy."

He obeyed and helped her unclasp the weighty Unsullied pauldrons and finally pulled off the black cuirass. Underneath, Arya was wearing the standard black tunic, pants and boots, all much too large for her small body. Jon noticed, to his great sadness, the ice blue hand scars of the Night King around Arya's neck, similar to the one Bran had on his wrist but far more foreboding.

Jon gave her a curious look, "Where did you get all this? How did you find me, how did you get here?"

"All the destruction made it easy to get through the city unnoticed. I found out where the Unsullied stored their armour and weapons, it was easy to find out where you were being kept. I only had to listen."

"Most of the Unsullied speak Valyrian, from what I've been told," Jon said.

"Aye," Arya agreed, "I learned enough Valyrian too get by while I was in Braavos, where I got this."

Arya held up in her free hand, the face that she was just wearing. Jon grabbed it gingerly, it felt like skin but was oily and made his stomach churn with sickness. Arya noticed the grimace on Jon and took the strange face from his hands.

"That's the skill you learnt from the Faceless Men?" he asked.

"Yes, my body wouldn't look right in Unsullied armour. But his could," Arya replied looking down at the olive-skinned face.

"Did you know him?"

"His name was Tregan Daegyr," she started. "He was born in Volantis, then moved to Braavos with his wife and two daughters. He lived there for 10 years as a fisherman. I used to buy oysters from him. One day he came into the House of Black and White, he was coughing up blood and was hardly able to walk. He wanted the pain to end, his wife and daughters knew of what was happening, and he didn't want to keep wasting money on healers. He said, 'Ñuha lentor jorrāelagon se gelebo. Nyke daor vīlībagon vējes. Ñuha jēda ēza māzigon.' 'My family needs the money. I cannot fight fate. My time has come.' So I gave him the gift of death, and he gave his gift in return."

Arya was staring at the face the whole time she talked, she raised her eyes to meet Jon, and he regarded her with a solemn and concerned look.

"I need to sit, Jon. Help me," Arya eventually said.

But Arya was helping Jon walk as much as he was helping her. Arya limped with her arm around Jon's waist, and he shuffled slowly with a hand on the wall to support his weak body. So they were, a defeated brother leading a crippled sister. They finally reached the stone bench within the alcove underneath the single barred window and sat close to each other. Arya sat to his left and threw the spear to the ground, placed the cured face of Tregan Daegyr gently beside her on the stone, and then rested her head on Jon's shoulder, letting out an exhausted sigh.

"You okay?" he asked, "how's your leg?"

"This night has taken a lot out of me, but it will heal. It'll just be another scar like the others."

"I know the scar on your head from the Long Night, but there are others?"

Arya took a hand and slightly lifted up the Unsullied tunic to reveal her muscled and hardened stomach, that had several scars marked throughout it. Jon immediately recognised them as cuts from a sword or dagger, similar to his own ones. A diagonal cut on the left side of her stomach, a vertical one in the centre and a deep piercing scar just below and to the right of it. Arya sat up straight and showed him two more deep cuts on her right ribs.

"Seven hells, Arya. Where did you—"

"Braavos," she stated.

Jon shook his head with incredulity. She let go of her tunic, letting it drop back down. Her eyes darted from Jon's face to his chest.

"Can I..."

Jon, knowing what Arya was asking. Pulled down the loose rags to reveal his deep scar of the dagger that Olly used to pierce his heart. Arya's face dropped when she saw the scar, she leaned in and touched it gently.

"I can't believe you died," Arya whispered.

"I can't believe I came back."

"Melisandre."

Aye, Melisandre," Jon affirmed.

"There's nothing is there, on the other side?" Arya asked with sad eyes.

Jon shook his head.

"Nothing is just nothing," Arya said in a murmur, almost imperceptible to Jon.

She looked as if her mind went to some other time, in the past along her own trail. Jon's head tilted confounded by her strange words, and she removed her hand from his scarred heart. Jon let go of his ragged cloth clothing, then she leaned her head back on his shoulder.

"I can't stay for long," said Arya, dispassionately. "I took over the last guards post, but they will cycle guards again at midnight. They will get suspicious if I'm not out there as an Unsullied guarding you."

"You didn't have to come."

"I needed to. I needed to know you were okay. I wanted to know what the situation was in the city. And you should know what is happening too."

"Okay," Jon gave in, "then tell me."

Arya lifted her head from his shoulder and gazed at him. "No, not yet. You've lost weight, you look like shit, and your breath smells worse."

Jon snorted with laughter.

"Go to my shield, something for you there," she motioned her head towards the Unsullied shield leaning against the wall on the other side of the cell.

Jon furrowed his brow but did what she said, he got up slowly and made a sluggish pace. When he picked it up, he noticed on the inside tied with twine to the shields hand straps was a leather waterskin and a hurriedly wrapped parchment tied with string. Jon undid both the waterskin and wrapped parchment. When he finally relieved the two objects, he removed the cap from the waterskin first and gulped down the wonderfully tasting water that quenched his dried tongue and throat.

"Slowly you fool," Arya said from the bench.

Jon ignored her, he kept drinking the water fast, noticing Arya shaking her head. But with the sudden overabundance of water, his stomach turned and the liquid caught in his throat. He reeled over, spitting and coughing the water from his mouth harshly.

"Wow. If only someone told you to drink slowly," Arya chastised sarcastically, rolling her eyes and adding another shake of her head in. "Seven hells, Jon" she muttered.

Jon recovering from his coughing fit, regarded her with a grin, then began to remove the twine from around the parchment. Inside he found a chunk of bread and a piece of hard cheese. It was the blandest food in the world, but to Jon's hungry eyes, it looked like a feast. He bit into the bread first, relishing the sustenance and mosied back to Arya.

"What'd you find out?" Jon asked between bites of bread.

"First of all," Arya said, glancing to Jon. "You should know that Sansa made me Warden of the North."

Jon paused his chewing and looked at her with perplexity. "Sansa did... You... want that?"

"No, but all the other bloody lords were bickering to fuckin' much, so I had to do it. Take command. Or you would be dead. Sansa just made it official in her scroll. Does that... bother you? That it's Sansa doing this?"

Jon laughed, "Ha! I'm a prisoner, Arya. I'm not a lord or warden of anything."

He sat next to her on the stone bench and looked her over. "You'll be a good warden. Davos told me when he saw you fight that you were like a woman possessed, I agree with him. I've seen you fight now too, you have a mind for battle. You can make crucial decisions quickly, without hesitation in battle. That is a great talent to have."

Arya narrowed her eyes and grimaced, "I wasn't asking whether I would be good or not. I was asking if you are okay with Sansa's making these decisions."

Jon losing his appetite, placed the remaining cheese and bread to his side and put the waterskin between his feet. He gazed to the stone floor and mulled over his thoughts.

"Sansa knows best," he said. "There is no King or Queen, and she is Lady Paramount. No one is going to stop her."

"You didn't answer my question."

"What do you want me to say, Arya?" Jon said, looking to her. His voice changed to be darker and harder in tone. "That I forgive her? That I'm okay with her manipulating things from the background? Sansa broke a promise, Arya. She swore to me and broke it."

"I'm not happy with what she did either," Arya replied also allowing a harder tone in her voice. "But she had a good reason—"

"A good reason?" Jon cut in. "From the moment Sansa met Dany, she was against her. She didn't even kneel to Dany when she arrived in Winterfell like she should have—"

Arya gripped Jon's wrist with force. "No, Sansa didn't kneel. Neither did I. Because Sansa and I didn't trust her and the North wanted to be independent. I told you before you did the right thing by bringing her armies to help us. But your queen clearly had other ideas, and her judgement was clouded by her love for you and her obsession with ruling and the Iron Throne. And Sansa knew it. I understood most of what Daenerys said in her speech in the plaza. She wanted to conquer everything, Jon. Winterfell included. But if Daenerys had become Queen, Sansa would never have bent the knee to her, even if she burnt down Winterfell."

Jon resigned his view to the floor once again, he shook his head, "If Sansa gets what she wants, they'll call her 'The Queen Who Never Knelt'," he muttered.

"I don't think you know what she really wants, brother."

"Aye, I know nothing don't I," He slumped his head back against the wall, defeated once more. "I just... Dany..."

"If you hadn't of killed The Dragon Queen, I would have," Arya said tersely. "And it wouldn't be for revenge like Cersei and the rest that were on my list. It would be for justice. We had swapped one tyrant for another."

Jon stared at Arya with shock, there was the killer in her that Sandor Clegane had told him about during their talk the night before Jon left for King's Landing.

_"Arya is a cold little bitch and a killer. Yer sister is stronger than all o' these cunts. Don't tell her I said that."_

Jon sighed, "Dany lost everything, Arya. Her children, her friends..."

"Aye," Arya interrupted with harshness in her voice, "and had you listened to Sansa's advice and let the armies and dragons recuperate after the Long Night, then maybe that might not have happened. And had you and your queen let me go to King's Landing on my own and deal with Cersei we could have avoided all of this."

"Nobody could have known what would happen. I couldn't take Sansa's side, I had to back Dany, she was my queen!"

"And Sansa is your sister!"

Arya's harsh raised voice took Jon aback and a solemness overcame him. His sense of defeat returned. His unknown place in the world edging in his mind.

"Arya..." his voice became weak, "you and Sansa... I'm not your brother."

Jon felt a sudden sting on his face as Arya, with unbelievable speed had slapped him hard across his cheek.

"Don't ever say that again!" she wailed. "You're my brother, and Sansa's and Bran's. Robb's and Rickon's too. You are Ned Stark's son."

 _"You are, your just as much Ned Stark's child as any of us,"_ for some reason, Sansa's words came flooding into Jon's mind.

"That hurt," he muttered dodging the thoughts of Sansa in his memory, and he rubbed his stinging cheek.

"Good. Bloody Northern fool."

"You're a Northerner too," Jon jested.

"Yes. But I got Tully brains, like Sansa," Arya rebutted.

Jon let out a sudden snort of laughter, and he saw Arya smile wide. "I didn't get much Targaryen, did I?"

"No, because you're a Stark. I'd consider that better."

"Aye," Jon gave his _sister_ a warm smile. "A Stark."

Arya returned his warm smile that filled his heart, and she rested her head back on his shoulder.

"I'm not asking you to forgive Sansa," Arya began softly. "That is your choice. Just don't hold what she did over her, don't judge her only by that. Her intentions were good."

Jon did not reply, the two sat in the darkness listening to sounds of King's Landing. The yelling of Dothraki, the screams of the survivors, the distant clang of arakh's as Dothraki fought each other in celebration and the occasional howl of the wind outside the barred window.

"You said, something about a scroll from Sansa?" Jon suddenly asked.

Ayra rummaged her hand through her tunic and pulled out a heavily folded scroll and handed to Jon. He unfolded it, held the parchment to the light of the night and gradually read every word. After consuming the information. Jon gave the scroll back to Arya.

 _"They followed a tyrannical, foreign, self-proclaimed queen from an unhealthy family, and see her judgement as truth,"_ Jon recalled the Sansa's words on the parchment. _So did I, Sansa._

"The scroll was marked for Gendry, why do you have it?" he asked.

"Yes, he's at our encampment. I might have... taken it from him," a devilish smirk cut across Arya's lips.

"Nobody knows you're here tonight," Jon ventured.

"I told Davos. Took me a long time to convince him. But I gave him orders if there was any attack while I was gone. It's night and snowing, there won't be an attack."

Jon nodded, "Gendry's in the camp?"

"Gendry arrived quite a few days ago," Arya told it, "and since I woke up he's been helping me train to get my strength back, and he's been learning a bit about army movement and planning from Ser Davos and the other lords."

"Ohh, _training_ is it..." Jon said with heavily inflected sarcasm.

Arya elbowed him hard in the ribs, and Jon laughed and coughed.

"It's not like that, you bloody idiot... Anyway, Gendry has a small army of Stormlanders coming up to King's Landing. They should be near the Blackwater Rush by now."

"He's bringing armies. Sansa's bringing armies, is that necessary?" Jon asked his sister.

"Before I led the army into King's Landing for you. I sent Sansa a raven asking her to gather whatever she could," she replied.

"You don't trust the Dothraki or Unsullied?"

"Would you?"

Jon shrugged. "Tyrion knows them better than I do. He's spent more time dealing with them."

"Mhmm," Arya replied. She paused a moment, her mind stuck in thought.

"Either way," she continued, "what I've learned tonight makes me strongly believe that at least the Dothraki might attack our camp. They aren't getting along with the Unsullied, there is a lot of tension. I've heard that Grey Worm is having difficulty keeping them in check. They gallop around the city, killing and raping survivors. And I overheard Unsullied talking, they mentioned Winterfell, Starks, Northerners and Dothraki wanting to attack and burn in revenge for what you did to The Dragon Queen."

"Maybe they should kill me and save all the other trouble," Jon said with a monotone disregard.

Arya punched him hard in the thigh. "Don't say that. Besides, that wouldn't sate them."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't."

Jon felt Arya's fingers weave through his hand and hold tight. She lifted her head from his shoulder and gazed at him with consoling eyes.

"I'm sorry for everything that's happened. I'm... sorry you had to kill her," she said solemnly.

Jon smiled, warmly at his sister. "So am I."

"But you chose us in the end. Your family," Arya leapt and wrapped her arms around Jon's neck.

He returned the embrace and held her tight at the waist. They clung onto each other for a long time. The sounds of the fallen city was all that broke the silence. Jon felt Arya's head move to look outside the window.

"It's almost midnight. I should go," she said into Jon's ear. The two parted. "Don't—"

"Do anything stupid. Aye, thanks, little sister."

Arya laughed a contagious giggle. Jon helped her put on the Unsullied armour, and after they finished tying up the last of the pieces, Arya picked up the face from the stone bench and pulled out a small leather pouch from her tunic. She broke the wax seal of a small potion bottle that she retrieved from the pouch, and a tarty smell filled the cell. She drank it's liquid quickly and returned it and the pouch underneath her tunic.

"Time to become Annē again," she stated.

"An-Annē?" Jon asked with a puzzled look. "I thought his name was Tregan Daegyr?"

"It is, but that wouldn't work for an Unsullied. So I took the role of Annē Laehurlion."

Jon half-nodded, not really understanding. "Does that have a meaning in Common, like other Unsullied names. Like Grey Worms?"

Arya did not answer, she turned, her back facing Jon. He saw her place Tregan's face onto her own, and she muttered in High Valyrian what sounded to Jon, like a spell. The same haze that occurred when she unveiled herself happened again. He saw skin change, he saw shapes, he saw the outline of Arya become taller, wider and fill out the armour and clothes. The haze stopped, and Arya was no longer there. A Braavosi man in Unsullied armour stood before Jon. He turned and smiled, he knelt down to pick up his spear, shield and helmet. He placed the shield on his arm, the helmet on his head and put the weight of his right leg onto the spear. And Jon passed him the now empty leather waterskin.

He smiled at Jon again and spoke to him in a thick, Braavosi accent. "Annē Laehurlion means Horse Face."

Jon grinned stupidly as he watched Arya Horseface, leave his cell.

* * *

**Tyrion**

He rose from the bedding scratching his messy golden locks. Tyrion hardly got any sleep, and he blamed that on a lack of wine. The little Lannister mulled over his realisation that this had been the longest time he had been without wine since his rough trip to Pentos slumped in a box. He would have prefered the box to this. He took a seat on a shitty wooden chair, next to a shitty window in the shitty room that was his own shitty little prison. Tyrion gazed through the windowpane at every single special snowflake that drifted down upon the once proud and beautiful city. Wishing he could go out there and piss on each one for bringing this cold chill. Though, if he were able to go outside, he would be even colder then now and likely be run over by a Dothraki bloodrider. _At least I wouldn't be cold if I were dead._ Tyrion cursed at the cutting freeze and rubbed his arms. He cursed at himself wondering why he even bothered to get out of his bed. He blinked his heavy eyes, he knew he needed rest, and the warmth of a bed was better than this chair. Again rubbing his arms vigorously, he rose from the chair, turning his body. Then immediately fell back down on the chair with a stupified look on his face.

In the shadow of the doorway to his room, stood a short figure. With dark hair, styled in the same way Jon Snow did his. He could see the moonlight reflecting off iris' of truth-seeking eyes that were shadowed by thick eyebrows. The silhouettes armour was in a shape that Tyrion recognised, and the figure stood with the weight of their right foot on what appeared to be a walking stick.

The figure took a gingerly step forward, aided by the stick. It stepped into the light offered by the half-moon, and Tyrion's face gave an idiotic expression.

"Arya Stark?" he said dumbfounded.

She only smirked.

"Am I dreaming?" Tyrion asked.

Now she grimaced. "I fuckin' hope not. I don't want to be in your dreams."'

Tyrion slapped his face hard, and a second time just to be sure. Suddenly the figure that was apparently, Arya Stark. Threw a wineskin towards him. He did not react in time. Or rather at all, and the skin hit his head and fell to the ground. He looked down to the wineskin and rubbed his big dwarf eyes. He bent over and picked up the skin. When he sat back up straight, Arya had imperceptibly moved from the doorway and was now standing beside him. Now Tyrion knew for sure that it was definitely Arya Stark.

He looked up at her. "Your knack for subtle theatrics is truly endearing."

Arya's lips pursed but she made no response. Tyrion looked down to the wineskin and shook it, and the noise of a thick liquid sloshing inside made him smile.

"Wine?" He asked.

She nodded, "Horse piss."

Tyrion bellowed rather jauntily, Arya had remembered their conversation in Winterfell. The dwarf eagerly removed the cap and drank the sour Andalosi wine. He ignored the horse piss after taste and savoured the fact that he finally had a real drink. He offered the skin to Arya, she grabbed it and took an ungraceful swig. Tyrion watched the wine trickle down her chin. He smiled again.

"Sneak all through the city just to speak to me?" he jested. "I'm surprised you made it through with that," Tyrion pointed to her wounded leg and walking stick.

Arya burped and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Made for more of a challenge, my lord."

He chuckled softly. "Please Arya, call me Tyrion."

"Besides," she continued, ignoring his comment, "you aren't as strongly guarded as Jon."

Tyrion's eyes widened. "You've seen Jon?"

"Yes."

"How is he doing?"

Arya's eyes fell saddened, and she hesitated a moment before she answered. "He hates himself for what happened. For what he had to do."

"I know how he feels," said Tyrion with his own dejected look.

Arya passed him the wineskin, and he took a shot. After swallowing the wine, Tyrion rubbed his arms against the cold, and he noticed Arya staring at him.

"It's not that cold," she said with a small sneer.

"Easy for you to say. Why have you come, Arya?"

She took a long deep breath and did not say anything for a good moment before finally breaking the air. "Sansa made me Warden of the North."

"Ahh," Tyrion nodded his head left and right mulling through his mind. "Makes sense to me. You've proven yourself as a great warrior with a famous name. Now even more famous thanks to your deeds at the Battle of Winterfell. The Northerners would follow you happily. But a Warden is a military role, it requires knowledge of military tactics..." Tyrion looked at her eagerly, studying her face. It was stone.

"Which you must have," he continued, "Grey Worm told me of the battle in the plaza, and that you broke an Unsullied shield-wall with some brilliant tactics. A rare thing. You are clearly confident, intelligent and pick up on details quickly, especially concerning swords and war. You must have a picked up a few things from my father while you were his cup-bearer. No?"

"A little," Arya replied, still stone-faced.

"So truly, you—"

"Why must everyone justify me being Warden or pat me on the back," Arya interrupted tersely, her eyes almost rolling to the back of her head. "I didn't want it. That doesn't mean I'm not capable of doing it, nor does it mean I require reassurance, rationalisation or credence from people regarding my ability to do it. I did not come here for that, Lord Tyrion."

"Then why have you come, _Lady_ Arya?"

"Actually," Tyrion added before she could answer. "Let me ask a different question that has rather peaked my curiosity just now. You were in King's Landing during the battle for it, weren't you?"

"Wouldn't call the butchering of a city, a battle."

"Neither would I," Tyrion agreed with seriousness. "Why did you come to King's Landing?"

He eyed her intently, but the frustration she wore before was gone, any expression of emotion was removed from the Stark girls face. Tyrion knew what she was doing. And he knew the answer to his question.

Tyrion lifted his nose up. "You know I've read a great many books. Most of them about our history and all. Quite a few though, covered Essos and all its many delights. A particularly rare book I read, claimed the Faceless Men undergo such training as to be like actors in a play. This training is so they can more effectively alter their mannerisms, speech and even down to the way they walk. Said book also suggested that Faceless Men acolytes are taught to read the expressions on other peoples faces, even down to the tiniest wrinkle or curl of a lip, they apparently do this as to spot a lie or mistruth. And naturally they are also trained to be expressionless on command, hide their emotions, their thoughts, there wants and desires."

Arya peered at him, her lips thin, her dark eyes piercing his.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Tyrion cast a wicked smile, then his lips turned thin and he once again became serious. "Everything I've seen of you gives that book a lot of credibility. You don't need to use your Faceless Men skills and hide your emotions when I ask you such things, Arya. I'm not your enemy and I know how you and Sansa felt about my sister. You came here with the intent of killing Cersei. No doubt a plan concocted up by you and Sansa with no intention of telling others."

"Could have prevented all this," Arya said carelessly. "But your queen wanted Cersei for herself."

"Mhmm," Tyrion moaned evasively, he leaned his head back against the chair and took another swig of wine.

When he finished the swig, he caught Arya staring at him again. Her eyes blazing as they ran over his face.

"What... is it?" He asked her.

Tyrion felt the Stark girls dark eyes pierce him, reading him. Shooting from his lips to his eyes, his forehead to his ears. He began to feel uncomfortable.

"You're hiding something," Arya said suddenly.

Tyrion's stomach dropped. "No."

"Don't lie to me," her voice thick with the command of the Warden of the North.

Tyrion swallowed and sat up straight. "I guess that book  _was_ right, and the rumours of your skills aren't unfounded. So what if I might be hiding something, people are allowed their secrets."

"If it involves my family—"

"It doesn't," Tyrion said curtly.

Arya continued to stare at him before her shoulders relaxed, and she took her gaze to what was beyond the window. Tyrion passed her the wineskin, and the dark-haired girl took a long drink then wiped her mouth.

"Sansa told me you're a smart man. I came here tonight because I want your advice," Arya said.

Tyrion smiled at the unexpected words Sansa had apparently said and puckered up. "My advice? People haven't really benefited from my advice. You'd have better luck digging up Varys' ashes and asking them. Or better yet, asking Sansa. She's outlived all those who've tried to best her and so far she has been right about everything, including Daenerys. Maybe we all ought to have listened to her in the first place—"

"I came for your advice, not to join in your self-pity and regret," Arya spoke harshly. "I have a responsibility to the armies that are now under my command. So I came into the city tonight to get information because it's what we lack the most. The things I've heard tonight all but confirmed my thoughts that the Northern encampment might be attacked."

"Hmm," Tyrion allowed in thought. "By both the Unsullied and Dothraki?"

"I thought so at first, but the Dothraki seem to be getting restless and tired of Grey Worm, I've heard they want blood and are eager for revenge. If its anyone that will attack it's them. What do you know about the Dothraki and Grey Worm. Am I right?"

"More or less," Tyrion nodded. "Though Grey Worm has changed since Missandei's death, I don't think he would sanction an attack on you. From what I heard, he agreed to a truce and to retain Jon and me as prisoners until Sansa arrives. Which, if true, I believe he would keep to. He was courteous enough to inform me about what happened to Jon and Daenerys and the battle with you, so I have to believe he still has sense and belief in doing what is right. However, I have been wrong about people before."

"What about the Dothraki?" Arya asked quickly.

Tyrion looked up to her. "They are wild and savage, and they loved Daenerys and would likely hate the way she died. They know they wouldn't do much against the Unsullied in the city, but a charge on your encampment in an open field." Tyrion shook his head wearily, thinking of what could happen. "I've seen them charge a Lannister army that was far better equipped than your Northern one. Even if Daenerys weren't flying Drogon during that battle, there still would have been a massacre. The Dothraki are fearless, and near lunatic. They are highly skilled horsemen bred to fight. If what you said about their restlessness and their eagerness to kill is true, then you are right to fear them."

"I don't fear them," Arya inferred with conviction.

"You should."

"How many riders do they have?" She asked, dismissing his warning with indifference.

"They lost a lot of men at the Battle of Winterfell. A force of forty thousand dwindled down. But I doubt they lost many in the sack of King's Landing. I wouldn't put their numbers above one thousand."

"Is that all?"

"Their far smaller number will not stave off their want to fight, Arya. Should they attack the encampment like you fear, you may very well win the battle. But you will lose a considerable amount of men."

"Sansa is bringing reinforcements, from the North the Vale and the Riverlands," Arya replied proudly.

"Of course she is," said Tyrion with a mocking tone. "Though not many I gather, and have they ever fought Dothraki? Do they know the skill and fearlessness with which they fight. The Dothraki do not care how many men you may have, they are proud  _and_ foolish. If they attack they will not warn you. They will come out of the city with reckless intent. You will mount a hurried defensive that will not hold the initial charge, but due to your greater numbers you will eventually win the battle. And then what? What happens if Sansa's meeting with Grey Worm turns sour and a war with the Unsullied begins? Your army would be a tired and dwindled force, the Unsullied however, would be well rested. You might have broken the Unsullied shield-wall before, but do not expect Grey Worm to allow it again. He is a smart and ruthless commander, he will use the city to his benefit in whatever way he can and will resist a great deal of punishment, all while Jon sits in a cell. The Unsullied number near three thousand, but should you fight them your army would break upon their shields as if you were facing three times as much. Best you have a strong, well rested army should it come to that. "

Tyrion took a gulp of wine and allowed a brief respite as Arya's eyes shot across the room in thought.

"Have you heard the story of the Three Thousand of Qohor?" He said, breaking her deliberation.

"I have."

"Then you know what you face, Arya. Three thousands Unsullied defended against a far larger and fiercer army than what you could muster. You could persist, outflank them if you can, if Grey Worm is lax enough for that to happen, don't count on that though. Or you could scheme with Sansa and plot some downfall of theirs. You may very well win the war, particularly if Sansa gathers more allies which, with her learned skills, I no doubt believe she would. But the victory would be at a great cost."

"It's war, men die."

"True enough. But I think you want to avoid that as much as you can. You are an intelligent, strong woman. You're a hardened, highly skilled warrior with a reality of how harsh the world is, and a familiarity and ominous connection to death. But I believe there is a humanity to you. You care about people, and life. As much as you do death. And that is why you left the Faceless Men."

Tyrion saw Arya's jaw clench, her eyes teeter and a breath of air flaring her nose. "You've been wrong about people before," she said.

"Ha!" He bellowed, "indeed I have," then he said to himself more quietly, sorely. "...Yes I have."

Arya bit her lip and looked down at the stone floor. She spoke in a flat tone.

"So I have to make better defences or break the Dothraki charge to prevent as many deaths as I can, so as we have a healthy, full army should there be a war with the Unsullied. And if so we need to make sure we have strong allies with capable leaders, so as we can break the Unsullied and there doesn't become a 'Three Thousand of King's Landing'," she raised her eyes to Tyrion's. "Elsewise, a good deal of us are fucked."

Tyrion snorted. "To put it simply, yes. Something tells me you already knew this and already have plans in motion. But... what about your brother, hmm? You think Grey Worm won't take advantage of having him as a prisoner if it comes to a war?"

"If the Unsullied start a war..." Arya began. "...I slipped into this city tonight, I could sneak back in and get Jon out." 

"You  _might_ be able too. Arya, I believe Grey Worm will  _not_ attack your camp. But if the Dothraki do, and you manage to defeat them, you must do your utmost to prevent further war, not only for the lives the men in the armies that _you_ are responsible for, but for the common people in this city, and for Jon... and believe it or not, for me. As much as I have fucked things up and deserve far worse then my current predicament. I do rather enjoy living."

Arya gave him half a smile, but made no reply. She was silent and her silence reverberated throughout the room. Tyrion followed her line of sight to outside the window. The city itself had become quiet, and the gentle snow no longer fell. The colours of a sunrise appeared on the horizon, lighting the dark night with a subtle yellow-orange radiance. Suddenly a hand clasped Tyrion's shoulder, and he felt it amicably pat him. He followed the hand and arm to Arya, who was smiling warmly.

"Thank you for your help. I'm glad you're not dead," she said.

He returned her smile, "I'm glad you're not dead either, Commander Stark."

Arya removed her arm and she took another long drink from the wineskin then placed it in his lap. Then with her walking stick supporting her right leg, she began slowly limping towards the door that led out of the room. Tyrion watched, and he felt a pang of slight guilt hit him.

"Arya," he called out.

She stopped before she opened the door and faced him.

"You were right before, I was hiding something," admitted Tyrion.

"I know I was right."

Tyrion gazed his scarred face into Arya's deep dark eyes, and he felt his features contort into a grimace. "I don't know why I am telling you this, but after everything she has done to your family, you have a right to know."

"What is it?" Arya commanded.

"My brother, Jaime," Tyrion paused to take a deep breath. "He came to King's Landing to save Cersei. They were my siblings, I had to help them. I aided Jaime in getting into the city, hoping he could get to Cersei. That they might get on a ship flee to Essos and have their child and live. But like everything else I have done recently, that failed. After the slaughter and destruction, I found their bodies in the cellars beneath the Red Keep. I thought they were dead."

Tyrion saw Arya's eyes widen remarkably. "Thought?"

He felt his own eyes well up, and he brushed them harshly with the back of his hand. "Grey Worm also told me that his men found their bodies. Jaime was dead he had several stab wounds, though he was killed by the falling debris. But... my sister..."

"Cersei is still alive," he heard Arya finish for him.

Tyrion nodded, heavily, solemnly. He looked to Arya once more, and her face was stone again, unemotional, unexciting, unperturbed, unreadable.

"She was apparently _barely_ alive," Tyrion began. "They took her and did what they could to keep her breathing. She is somewhere in the city, Grey Worm intends on bringing down justice upon her, while she is alive and conscious of it. Cersei is a cruel and hateful woman, but she is still my sister. She is likely in agony and I fear she will suffer a terrible, painful fate." Tyrion wiped another tear. "I know what Cersei means to you, to Sansa. If you kill her tonight, Arya. Please don't make her suffer."

Arya grasped the handle of the door and pulled it open then took a step towards the threshold. She paused before she left and with sympathetic eyes, looked upon the dwarf.

"Farewell, Tyrion." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I tried to explore Jon's mind set of how terrible he likely felt for what's happened and how having Arya around uplifts him. But then we also see Arya defending Sansa and a bit of an argument between Jon and Arya.  
> Also wanted to delve into Tyrion's self pity and show a bit more of his intellect. Also if you noticed, Tyrion did not notice much of Arya's grimacing's of pain due to her wound and she acts very differently around Jon then she does most others.
> 
> Also yes, Cersei is alive. Arya has a choice...
> 
> Apologies for the focus on Arya in the last few chapters. But well, all I will say is enjoy her presence while you can.


	14. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa continues her long journey south, and meets family old and new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given its length (and the fact that I feel bad for taking so long to write another chapter) This chapter for Sansa will be split into three separate ones. One following the other. This chapter is part one.

Snow from the night before had cast a delicate layer of white on the rust dirt Kingsroad, and the melancholy trees and thickets that surrounded Sansa and the procession she led. The moping russet leaves and sombre fawn brackens swayed gently in the early morning breeze. White particles of snow cascaded down softly from the branches that swaggered in the wind and the sun emitted rays of majestic warm light upon the small parade of the Northern army. Sansa lifted her eyes to the cloudless blue sky, cherishing the days coming warmth. She was no stranger to the cold, but the warm glow of the south was something she did miss. Little birds sang a melodic tune pleasant to the ears as Sansa rode upon her chestnut mare trotting genially down the Kingsroad, the smoke of the Inn at the Crossroads, which would be their next destination, was visible in the distance. Ser Brienne of Tarth flanked Sansa's left riding her bay destrier. One hand on the reins, the other on the hilt of her golden Valyrian sword — Oathkeeper. Sansa dropped her eyes down and studied the blonde-haired knight who had a dour expression marking her weathered face.

"Something concerning you, Ser?" Asked Sansa.

Brienne glanced carelessly about, caught off guard by Sansa's question. "No, my lady. I just... well, I just hope Podrick made it safely to the Northern armies. And that Arya is okay of course."

Sansa observed the knight. Brienne was telling the truth, but not the whole truth, which consisted of a knight of Lannister who fled back to his poisonous lover. But Sansa knew better to bring this up as it became an ill-advised subject with Ser Brienne, as the fate of Ser Jaime was perchance, one of death. Sansa did not care for him, but Brienne certainly did, and Sansa did care for Brienne, she was a good friend and a trusted advisor.

"Podrick will be fine. He has become a competent warrior," said Sansa with a caring smile.

"Oh I know, I still worry for him."

"You should knight him once all this is done."

"Podrick as a knight? Pah! He still has a lot to learn."

A smirk found itself of Sansa's lips, and she caught the eye of Brienne who was casting her gaze towards her, regarding her with trepidation. "My Lady, I hope you don't mind me asking. Do you worry about Arya's life? They say she was severely wounded."

"Of course I do."

"Forgive me for saying, but you don't look like you do."

Sansa contemplated Brienne's statement a moment. What she said was no doubt true. "If there is one thing I have learned from Jon, its to lead by example. From what I have heard, our brother Robb did the same when he led the North. And from what Ser Davos' raven said of Arya, she is the same. She led the charge against the Unsullied, broke their shield wall."

Sansa caught Ser Brienne offering a bewildering look, no doubt wondering what the point of all this was.

"Fear is contagious," Sansa continued, "Arya and Jon are heroes in the eyes of the people I lead. They care about them, their well-being, their fate. As do I, and I can wallow in my grief for them, worry if they are alive or not. But how would that affect my people?"

"In no good way," Brienne concluded.

"Yes, people would see their ruler have doubt, anxiety, fear. I can let that happen, or I can lead by example. I can persevere, I can stay strong, and my people can gain their own strength from that. I can think logically, think rationally and use what I know. And what I know is — the raven from Ser Davos said they would send messengers should Arya succumb to her wounds. That would have happened by now, and we have seen no riders. Rational thought would propose that Arya is alive. I have to believe that. I named her Warden of the North in my scrolls before we received the news that she had fallen in battle. So knowing her, she is likely doing most things herself and walking and training already. Presumably against the advice of maesters."

Brienne smiled, "As you say, my lady."

_Arya, Jon. They have their swords and armour and their understanding of the battlefield. Not me. I have my wits, and I need to keep them about me. My battlefields are the schemes of people, I know them. My intelligence is my sword. My knowledge is my armour._

The march continued on and through the sounds of horses trotting, wagon wheels turning on the dirt road and men talking, cursing or yelling — whichever one it was, Sansa couldn't decide. She heard the sounds of rushing water, and she looked toward it, and the gushing flow of the river Trident was visible through the snow covered trees and thickets. Sansa hadn't been to these lands since she was a little girl heading down to King's Landing for the first time, but it was here that the pang of memory came to her.

_"I'll gut you, you little cunt!"_

_"Nymeria!"_

"Lady Sansa."

_"Arya, leave him alone!"_

"My lady."

_I was a stupid little girl. We should have let Nymeria finish—_

"Sansa!"

She jolted with surprise and darted her head to Brienne, "What is it?"

"Riders approach, my lady. Your forward scouts."

Sure enough, there was. Two riders on two thin but fast horses approached Sansa. She raised her hand nonchalantly to stop the men behind her. Ser Brienne, noticing at once, called out in a bellowing voice for a halt to their march. The two scouts came to a stop just before her, and their horses jostled around still full of adrenaline.

"Tell me," Sansa ordered.

"Men at the inn, m'lady. A good lot of 'em," one of the scouts responded as he cracked the seal on a waterskin, he was a veteran soldier with a dry and shrivelled face.

"Banners?" asked Sansa.

"Erm, a blue field, with a circle and inside a white half-moon and some bird," replied the other scout. "Like them ones the Knights of the Vale had back in Winterfell, m'lady."

"The _bird_ is a falcon," Sansa corrected. "That's Robin Arryn and his men down from the Vale. Any others?"

"Tully's, lady. A leaping silver trout on a red and blue field," the scout holding the waterskin answered, who apparently knew his Tully banners. "I'd know those banners anywhere. I fought beside them in these lands when your brother Robb was King in the North."

"How did you survive the massacre by the Freys?" Brienne asked with suspicion.

"We fought and then we ran. Aye, you can think us cowards, but as you say Ser, it was a massacre. We tried out best, but we knew we would all just get killed. So me and a handful of other lads fled north, went back home. Them boys are all dead now..."

Sansa gave him a thin smile, "Who is your lord?

"Lord Cerwyn, m'lady."

"And your name?"

"Hallis."

She nodded at him. "Join the march. We head towards allies. Scouts won't be necessary till after we leave the inn. Ride on one of the wagons so your horses can take a rest."

"Ahh there was another banner m'lady," said the second scout. "They was the direwolf of Stark. A grey direwolf on a white field," he finished with a toothy smile, seemingly happy with himself.

A sunken dread filled her, she felt her features drop, and sudden darkness fell upon her mind. _Riders from the Northern encampment?_ She worried to herself. _Regarding Arya?_

"Did you see the men? Was it messengers or an honour guard?" she demanded as her agitation rose.

"I'm sorry, m'lady. We didn't get close enough to look at the lads that accompanied the banner," Hallis answered.

Sansa clenched her jaw with frustration. She did not give them orders to get close or to check out what precisely the assortment of men was. But she had not ordered them against it either. They could have used a bit of intuition she deemed. Though expecting such of the average soldier may have been presuming too much. Sansa composed her face, lifted her chin and sat straighter on her horse, determined to remain stoic.

"Join the march," she said curtly to the two scouts. "Ser Brienne, you and I will ride ahead. Inform the men to continue forth to the inn, let Bran and Samwell Tarly know what we are doing, then gather some mounted soldiers to join us."

Brienne returned quickly with six others mounted on various horses, and they flanked Sansa, two at her sides and two at the rear with Brienne at her front. Sansa, surrounded by her guard, took haste and sped down the Kingsroad, the dirt and snow flicked up behind, and the cold wind blew through her, chilling her face and lifting her cloak, making it flow among the air with each hammered gallop of her mare.

In their hurried pace, the Inn at the Crossroads came quickly. The Kingsroad opened up, and the sizeable snow-swept land around the inn came into view, and even in winter, it was a bustle of people — travellers filling their sacks with supplies. Traders checking their pack horses and counting their gold. Soldiers, some Knights of the Vale, some Riverlanders, talked to each other eagerly as they sharpened their swords or cleaned their armour or just drank. Two Knights of the Vale stood guard at the point where the Kingsroad opened up to the inn's lands. They still wore their steel armour and helms and watched Sansa, and her group come near. The two knights wore thin cloaks clasped around their neck with a sigil of a broken black wheel on a green field.

When Sansa and her guards came close, Brienne cantered her horse towards the two knights for introductions. "Sers, this is Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Lady Paramount of the North. She has come south intending to enter King's Landing and free her brother. She asked your lord, Robin Arryn, for his support and to meet us at this inn."

"I know who she is," said one of the knights, with a gruff voice and he removed his helm to reveal a hardened face, but his eyes lit up brightly and wore a warm smile such that made him appear as the kindest man who could never be a toughened, veteran knight. His hair, flattened by his steel helm, lay in a thin grey mop with a fringe stopping just before his brow.

"Ser Morton?" Sansa exclaimed. She coerced her mount forward closer to the knight.

"It is good to see you, Lady Sansa," he said with a cheery voice.

"You as well, Ser. How are you? Your wife, your children? Your mother, Lady Anya?"

"Ahh my lady, they are well. Mother is still kicking, and Carlyn birthed a beautiful girl two years back."

"She did?" Sansa asked eyes wide.

"Yes, my lady, " Morton said with a chuckle, "I know, not expected at our age. But she is a spritely woman. I hope you do not mind, but Carlyn and I decided to name our daughter, Sansa. Carlyn said it was the prettiest name she ever heard."

"I don't mind at all. You honour me, Ser, and congratulations," Sansa replied earnestly.

"Thank you, m'lady."

Sansa turned in her saddle and spoke to her knight, "Brienne, this is Ser Morton Waynwood of Ironoaks. I've known him since my time in the Vale; he, his wife and his mother were always kind to me. Morton this is Ser Brienne of Tarth, my sworn knight and my greatest friend, I trust her with my life."

Morton Waynwood offered a friendly grin and bowed low to Brienne. "A lady knight? You look like you know how to handle that sword and swearing yourself to Lady Sansa shows you have honour. A great friend to Sansa, is a great friend to the Vale. It is a pleasure to meet you, Ser Brienne."

Brienne delivered to him a smile and bowed her head deeply.

"Allow me to introduce my eldest son, Roland," Morton said proudly, placing a hand on the young knight next to him. "I don't believe you met each other in the Vale. He is one of the best horsemen I know, even if I am a little biased."

Roland removed his helm, unveiling a mop of long brown hair and smiling eyes that shone brightly reflecting his father's image. "Pleasure, Lady Sansa. My father has told me much about you. These lands are made brighter by your presence."

"Son, would you get Lord Robin, Lord Royce, and the others and let them know Lady Sansa has arrived," said Morton after Sansa acknowledged Roland. "Allow me to assist you off your horse, my lady."

And she did. Sansa took Morton's offered hand and climbed down from her mare, while Roland strode off in search of the lords. Brienne sent orders to the men that accompanied them to take the horses for feed and water, and she stood by Sansa's side as they walked together with Ser Morton to the inn.

"Lord Royce is here?" Sansa asked.

"Indeed he is," Morton replied. "He arrived yesterday with some more Vale knights and a small number of your Northmen from the encampment outside the Capital."

"And how is our Lord Robin?"

"He is well, I hear he asks almost every day if there has been a raven from you, and when he received your latest asking for support against the foreigners, he jumped at it without hesitation."

"I appreciate his support, but you are all free to make your own choice should you not want to go into another war. I would handle Robin."

"Wouldn't think of it, my lady!" Morton bellowed as he came to a sudden stop. "You left a great impression on us while you stayed and toured throughout the Vale and yours is a great family that we are proud to call our allies. Not to mention you impressed us further when you brought justice upon Petyr Baelish. That conniving fool, he was trouble from the start, and you freed the whole of Westeros from his schemes. Don't get me wrong; the Vale is loyal to Robin Arryn, always will be. Nevertheless, we are aware you influence him, and we are comfortable with that. He listens to us if he feels like it, but he will listen to you without hesitation."

"Hmm," Sansa mused continuing the march to the inn. "I am glad he still does after I had Lord Baelish executed."

"Oh, he took the news of his _uncle's_ execution gravely, the letter you wrote explaining the situation helped him understand why, but unfortunately he did have an episode that night."

"His shaking sickness? Does it get worse?"

"No, my lady. If anything, it has been happening less these days. The one I just spoke of was the first one he had in a month."

"Good. How is his combat training going? Improving I hope."

"If you consider no longer wailing like a sickly girl when he swings his sword an improvement, then yes."

Sansa did her best to stifle a smirk. "How is his riding coming along?"

"He is a surprisingly competent rider, my lady. Though he feared the horses at first, he soon came to love riding them. He will never be a great horseman, but he can keep up on his steed."

"Very well, should the next few days result in a war, I would sooner see Robin mounted and riding with his knights toward battle, rather than cowering away from it."

"Do you think that is wise, Lady Sansa? Even if he has become a man, he is still a sickly one at that, who can barely wield a sword let alone fight in a battle."

"The Knights of the Vale would protect him, as they are sworn to, just as they have protected me," Sansa responded confidently. "Seeing their lord charge with them in battle, even if he is a sickly one, would give them inspiration and vigour that no words can strive to simulate... Words are wind. I do not wish to see Robin dead, but if he is going to lead the Vale, then he needs to be a man, and he needs to _lead_ by example _."_

"Forgive me, you speak true—"

"Sansa!"

A sudden wail of a voice echoed making Sansa, Morton and Brienne stop in their tracks. A thin young man in a cream blue doublet came out from a group of knights that surrounded him and ran towards Sansa. His mass of dark black hair waved carelessly in front of his eyes, and his teeth came exposed as a dull-witted, ear-to-ear grin seized his face.

_Here we go._ Sansa brooded, preparing herself. She stepped forward and held her arms out wide.

"The defender of the Vale!" She cheered, and Robin Arryn fell into her, his arms wrapped around her back and his head landed between her breasts.

"It's so good to see you, cousin. I have missed you!" said Robin, still grasping onto Sansa.

She broke the embrace quickly and pulled him out in front of her, both her hands clasped on his collar bones. "You've grown a lot since I was in the Vale, Robin. You've become a handsome young man."

His weeping eyes widened, and his mouth gaped. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely."

Robin didn't even hide his blush, "Oh, Sansa, I think you are very beauti—"

"Ser Morton tells me you've become an excellent horseman," she interrupted, changing the subject promptly with practised ease. "I would love to see that."

"I can show you now! I can get a horse saddled and show you!"

"Not just yet, Sweetrobin. But how about, when we leave for the south you ride beside me on the march?"

"I'd love too!" he said, grinning stupidly

"Good, you can show me how great of a rider you are and share your stories of the Vale and tell me what you think about being this far out of the Eyrie for the first time."

"Oh, I've been here before."

Sansa's face contorted in puzzlement, "You have?"

"Yes! The scroll you asked my knights to deliver to your sister. I came with them."

"You met Arya... How did that go?"

"She was mean, she scared me. And that big man she rode with scared me even more. But she's your sister, so I didn't throw them out the Moon Door."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"The big man said you would punish me if I did, was he right?"

Sansa smiled at the thought of what Sandor would have actually said, "His name is Sandor Clegane, and yes Sweetrobin, he was right. But it would pain me greatly should I have needed to."

"It would pain me as well," Robin Arryn contemplated that for a moment, before waving it off carelessly. "Is it true what my lords and knights say, that we go to battle? Like the Winged-Knight from the stories! I would like to see a battle, but I don't think I believe my lords and knights. The Vale is peaceful with me as ruler. Maybe I should throw them out of the Moon Door for lying to me."

"You will do no such thing," Sansa chided. "They weren't lying it's very likely we could be facing a battle ahead, and the Vale isn't the only place in Westeros, peace there does not mean peace elsewhere, Robin. This is one of the reasons why we wanted you to leave the Eyrie, so you can see how big the world is."

"You and uncle Petyr always said that... I wish he was here..."

Sansa took her hands off him and feigned a look of displeasure, "You disappoint me, Robin. Lord Baelish was a traitor who would have stepped over everyone to get what he wanted, including you."

"No, I'm sorry!" He righted his words quickly. "I didn't mean to disappoint you. It's just... I only... well, uncle Petyr was so kind to me and would buy me things, he brought me a Gyrfalcon. I had to have it killed, though. It was far too noisy."

She sighed and placed a caring hand on his shoulder, " _Lord Baelish,_ brought your love with grand gifts and fake smiles. I have never brought you anything, but you are my cousin, and I consider you one of my greatest friends, Sweetrobin, you will always have my love."

Robin's morose face turned into a toothy smile, his weeping eyes lifted and he blushed again. Sansa lifted her sights as she noticed the approach of Roland Waynwood accompanied by Lord Bronze Yon Royce and several Northmen and another man clad in an elegant brown doublet with pins of a leaping silver trout on its collar. Royce was beaming as he approached her and bowed.

"Did not expect to see you here, Bronze," Sansa said.

"I'm happy to be here," he replied. "We come as an honour guard as per your sister's orders."

Sansa felt her heart thump inside her chest, and a shiver run through her arms. "Arya... she's—"

"Alive and well, my lady," Lord Royce revealed proudly. "She is a fine warrior and Warden. Her grave wound didn't stop her. She was walking around camp the day after she woke from her fever induce sleep."

"Of course she was," Sansa smiled to herself, and an overwhelming sensation of relief overcame her, all her worries over Arya that she did her best to hide from others, suddenly left at once, and the light of the sun seemed brighter. Arya was alive and safe. Now it was only Jon.

"Podrick and his men made it safely to the encampment then?" Brienne asked

"He did, Ser. Commander Arya had him rest at the camp. He now stands by her side."

"Tha' is nay all she did, m'lady," said one of the Northmen, and when Sansa saw his face, she recognised him immediately.

"Aberdale," she said with surprise and a smile. "What has my sister done now."

"It's Cap'n now, m'lady. Commander Arya named me Cap'n o' yer household guard."

Sansa smiled even wider, "Well, I did make her Warden. I suppose I have to put up with these decisions concerning our military and guard. And she did say I needed better guards."

Aberdale stepped forward and took a knee, dipping his head low, "I will serve yer to the best o' me ability, Lady Sansa."

"Stand, Captain. I know you will. You and your men must be hungry."

"Aye," he agreed, rising to his feet.

"Head into the inn and eat your fill, I will cover it. Should the innkeeper have any concerns, tell them to speak to me."

"Aye, m'lady, thank ye. Come, lads."

"I will join you, Captain," said Royce. "I will secure a large table for the lady and the lords."

"Thank-you, Bronze," Sansa said, and she turned to face Robin. "Join them, Sweetrobin, tell the innkeep who you are, and they will give us the largest table in the inn."

He smiled and nodded eagerly, and Sansa watched as Robin, Captain Aberdale and Lord Royce, walked into the inn, leading Northmen and a few Knights of the Vale.

"That's the Warden of the East?" Ser Brienne asked of Robin as she stepped to next to Sansa, with Morton Waynwood beside.

"He suckled at his mother's teat for too long," Sansa indulged. "Amongst other issues."

Morton snorted, holding back a laugh.

"He has the mental capacity of a child," Brienne scolded.

Sansa allowed a small, cheeky smile, "Careful, Ser. He is the Lord Paramount of the Vale too."

"Whatever his titles, he is enamoured with you, dear niece," A voice suddenly said from Sansa's other side.

She turned to its origin, and the man in the elegant brown tunic stood before her, a broad grin on his face.

"Uncle Edmure."

He clapped his hands on her shoulders and held firm, "Gods, you are the spitting image of Catelyn... I haven't seen you since you were no bigger than a blade of grass. My word, look at you. Absolutely beautiful."

He hurled her towards him and embraced her in a tight hug, she returned the embrace tentatively, before having to force him back. Though he still held onto her shoulders after they parted.

"Little niece, look at you," he repeated. "Your mother would be proud, I know it."

"Thank you, uncle; it is good to see you. How are your wife and child?"

"Ask them yourself," Edmure stepped to the side to reveal a thin and short but beautiful woman with a narrow face and large eyes. Holding her hand was a boy no older than three, Sansa couldn't help but notice that he looked like Rickon. The Lady of Winterfell suddenly felt strange upon seeing a Frey. The uncomfortable feeling fell into her stomach and turned it foul. Then she realised, to utmost disbelief, that her uncle brought his family to war.

_Why the bloody hells did he bring his wife and child?_

Edmure stepped to the woman's side, "Sansa, allow me to introduce my wife, Roslin, erm Frey... Tully! And our son, Hoster Tully. Roslin, Hoster, this is my niece, Sansa Stark the Lady Paramount of the North."

Roslin Frey Tully curtsied nervously and urged her son to bow who did so and would have fallen over, were it not for his mother's hand supporting him,

"Lovely to meet you, Lady Sansa. We've heard much of you and your family," said Roslin uneasily.

"Was that before or after your family massacred mine?" the words left Sansa's mouth faster than she realised, but the uncomfortable feeling of seeing a Frey, quickly became overshadowed by the scolding remark that made Sansa feel good, even if it may have been too harsh.

"Sansa!" Edmure reprimanded. "Roslin is a Tully now, she is your family, and she had nothing to do with that butchering! She was used as a pawn by her father and the Lannisters. She is innocent."

Sansa carried her eyes over Roslin, who had her head low and was playing with her dress anxiously. Suddenly Sansa felt awful for what she said and even more horrible for that it made her feel good to say it. She was a pawn for other men's schemes or enjoyment as well, used and thrown away. Her feelings toyed with, and her family slaughtered while she sat with the enemy.

She walked over to Roslin and took her hands, "Forgive me, Lady Roslin. I have been overwhelmed with so much recently, that it's been difficult to keep a hold of my own tongue," Sansa feigned a laugh and Roslin, not realising it was fake, joined in. "My uncle is right; you're family now, and from what I have heard, the Frey's were punished for the Red Wedding. I shouldn't punish you as well."

Sansa found tears in Roslin's eyes and shivering in her hands, and she knew that even though Roslin was older than her, with the experience of being a mother. Roslin Tully was intimidated and scared.

"I know... I know that your sister, killed my family and their lords," said Roslin apprehensively. "Lord Edmure told me."

Sansa cut daggers to Edmure who had a dumb smile on his face, "Uncle, I wish to speak to you in private," she took her hands from Roslin and grabbed her uncle by his arm, forcing him away.

"What's the problem?" he said when they stopped out earshot of Roslin.

"Problem?" Sansa repeated, eliciting indignance. "First, why did you tell her about Arya?"

"Roslin has a right to know."

"You could have avoided telling her that it was Arya who killed her family, this will only cause issues."

"Her family was evil; Roslin knows this."

"They were still her family."

"You worry too much sweet niece, Roslin can be trusted."

" _You_ trust her. I have yet any reason to. I do, however, have reason to doubt her emotions, to doubt what she might tell little Hoster, to doubt what she might tell others, and to doubt how she would interact with Arya. My sister is not someone to suffer fools or scared little women."

Edmure shifted his feet and coughed, "Point taken..."

"Second," Sansa proceeded, "why in the seven hells did you bring your wife and child? I am unsure of what to expect in the south. We could very well be going to war."

"I wanted them to meet their family—"

"A battlefield is no time for family meetings and reunions. They are the future of your house, and they are a woman and a child!"

"You're a woman, dear niece! What—" Edmure quickly realised his mistake when he saw the look on Sansa's face.

She made her lips thin, her eyes narrow, and lifted her chin. "Please continue, uncle."

He swallowed dryly, and his eyes darted nervously. "I only mean, well, what's the difference between you and Roslin? Why can you be here and she can't?"

"Her hands were shaking when I held them, she is intimidated by me, how do you expect she will react if it comes to war? She will freeze in spot and she will probably die. We cannot spare the men to look out for her and your son. I am here because I am leading armies to support my sister, to free our brother and to secure Westeros from foreigners. This is no place for your wife and child."

"She and Hoster can be kept far from the fighting, with the northern healers and the Silent Sisters from my forces."

"No," Sansa replied sternly, "the healers and Silent Sisters knew what they were getting into when they took their roles. Roslin and Hoster didn't. You cannot expect your wife, who is as timid as a deer and your child who can barely stand straight to witness death all around them, let alone be present at a battlefield. I take it you have men here?"

"Yes, I have fifty men that came with us. The rest awaits at Harrenhal, but—"

"Do you trust them?"

"Yes, they are apart of my household guard, but San—"

"Have them take your wife and child back to Riverrun. You can ride with my armies until we reach Harrenhal."

"Niece, you can't—"

"This is not up for discussion," Sansa said viscerally, she turned and began to walk away. "I will not have Roslin and Hoster in harm's way, physically, _or_ mentally."

"This is not for you to decide!" Edmure declared tumultuously. "If you keep this up I can take my whole army back to Riverrun and leave you thousands of men short. You aren't my Queen; I will decide where Roslin and Hoster go."

Sansa turned on her heels then stepped forward furiously, inches away from Edmure's face. Her height made her stand eye to eye with her uncle, and she glowered at him as she spoke. "You would abandon your family in their time of need?"

"Roslin and Hoster are my family."

"I am your family too, as are Arya and Jon. Let me remind you that you would still be rotting in a cell beneath the Twins were in not for Arya. Let me also remind you that you would not have even half of your army were it not for the ravens I sent to the Lords of the Riverlands convincing them to support you."

"You didn't convince all of them," he said defiantly.

"No, and who is to blame for that, uncle? Someone who gave up their home to the Lannisters and Freys, and got their uncle Brynden killed."

"Brynden could have surrendered, and he would still be alive, but he was too proud! And I did what I had to, to protect my child!"

"And you would throw all that away by bringing them to a battlefield!" Sansa yelled, harshly. She took a step back and regarded him with a long look. "Family, duty, honour. Make your choice, Lord Edmure."

Sansa returned to Roslin who was mid-conversation with Ser Brienne and Roland Waynwood, and Hoster who was playing a game with Ser Morton. The little lord Tully had the knights helm and would place it over his head which would cover his eyes, Morton would feign disbelief claiming that Hoster had disappeared until the little one took the helm off again making Morton jump with relief, all this caused little Hoster to giggle ludicrously and it made Sansa smile.

Edmure returned shortly after with a clear look of displeasure on his face, "Roslin, my dear. I fear it may be safer if you return to Riverrun."

"My love," said Roslin, pushing herself into Edmure's chest. "I wish not to leave you."

"You are welcome to join us in the inn before you go," Sansa said, "but Edmure is right, where we are heading is no place for you and your child."

Roslin Tully looked to Sansa with heavy, suspicious eyes then turned to her and curtsied quickly. "I understand my lady. We will leave as soon as we can."

"You don't have to leave so soon, I said—"

"May the Gods have mercy on you and your men, Lady Sansa" Roslin said coldly.

Sansa stood up straighter, understanding Roslins sudden attitude, but she would not let Roslin make her feel guilty or make drama from the situation. "The Gods have no mercy, that's why they're Gods," Sansa replied just as coldly and left Edmure to his wife and child, she strode towards the inn with Brienne, Morton and Roland trailing behind.

They found their way inside the inn and to Lord Royce who had secured a table. Sansa sat in the booth seating right next to the window, her cousin Robin and Lord Royce were already sitting opposite, and her uncle Edmure still wearing a dour face, arrived later after seeing to his wife and child, taking a seat next to Sansa. They were served quickly, Robin asked for too much food, proving to Sansa that his large weeping eyes were far bigger than his stomach. She ate a slice warm mutton pie, the smell of it made her stomach rumble, and the crust was not like she ever had, even compared to the fine food King's Landing. She began using her fork and knife to cut around the mutton and focus on eating the crust, it wasn't hard crust that cut the gums, and it wasn't overly soft crust that became all mushy as soon as it touched moisture, it was a perfect, warm, homely piecrust. But she had promised herself to save room for the lemon cake, so Sansa shifted the mutton pie to the side and took her lemon cake, which she nibbled at tentatively, savouring all of its sweetness. She had changed much since she was a child, but her childhood love for lemon cakes would never leave her. And the bread on these lemon cakes was even better than the crust on the pie and far better than what the bakers made in King's Landing, the Vale or Winterfell. It crumbled delicately in her mouth with the faint taste of lemon hitting her tongue. When she bit into the meringue of the cake, its smoothness melted in her mouth alongside stronger hits of lemon and sugar. Sansa closed her eyes, savouring every bit of this wonderful ecstasy. If only she had bakers that could make cakes like this in Winterfell, she dreamed.

"Sansa," Robin said suddenly, wiping his lips that had piecrust caked on them. "Why aren't you Warden in the North?"

"Warden is a military title, nephew," Edmure answered with a mouth full of food.

"I know, but I've never been in a battle, and I am Warden of the East. Sansa, you brought the Knights of the Vale to victory in the Battle of the Bastards, and they say you fought at Winterfell. So, why not? Why did you name Arya as Warden?"

Sansa hid her annoyance in being interrupted of her thorough enjoyment of the lemon cake and spoke to Robin with a smile, "Very logical observation, cousin. But the Knights of the Vale planned the attack on the Boltons. I merely led them there. And I did fight at Winterfell, but it was the only way I and others in the crypt could survive, there was no grace in it, I was scared out of my mind. Finally, I have very little understanding of battles and military tactics compared to my sister, she picks up on them quickly, and she can adapt people, and herself even quicker. Her time with Tywin Lannister also accounts for much. I could learn tactics and be Warden as you will, but there isn't time for that, and as I was in the North and Jon as a prisoner, Arya was the highest-ranking person with our armies in the Crownlands, so it all just made sense."

"Oh," Robin said casually. "Well, if you're the Lady of Winterfell, and she is Warden in the North, who is in charge?"

"Ultimately, me. As our uncle said, Warden is a military title that has command over armies, but in peacetime, it merely becomes an honorary title. I'm glad you ask these questions, cousin Robin. It shows you have an interest and that you care about your roles."

Robin waved off her comment, "No, I don't really care."

Sansa rolled her eyes when she knew Robin wasn't looking and held up her goblet of wine to her lips to hide her contempt.

The rest of their meal became interspersed with inadequate conversations that were uninteresting to Sansa, which thankfully, she thought, became interrupted when the rest of her small force of Northmen arrived at the inn and Samwell Tarly pushed her brother, Bran inside. Bronze Yon Royce introduce Robin and Edmure to Bran and Samwell, and Edmure shook Bran's hand overzealously, but Bran's odd choice of words and lifeless stares made both Robin and Edmure increasingly uncomfortable which only amused Sansa the more she witnessed it. After she told Bran and Samwell that Arya was alive and well, she decided to bequeath her spot at the table to make room for her brother, ordering Aberdale and his men to guard Bran and see to anything he might need and then she exited the inn with Brienne at her side. Samwell joined them saying he wasn't hungry, and that he didn't particularly like the smell of the inn. The former Night's Watchmen, the newly knighted warrior and the lady who led them all, stood together in the sunlit snow outside the inn. Watching the Northmen eat, drink, fill their stocks and rest their horses.

"The morning is coming to an end," Sansa declared. "We've been here for too long."

"I can order the men to make quick, and we can leave as soon as you like," Brienne offered to her.

"No, the men and horses should be well-rested and fed, I've been pushing them too much to get south quickly. And it is my fault for riding ahead of them."

"You were worried about your sister."

"Unnecessarily."

"You couldn't have known, my lady."

Sansa shrugged, "I should have, it's my job to know things."

"You're too harsh on yourself, my lady," Said Samwell, with his natural wide and friendly smile. "Reminds me of Jon actually... if you don't mind me saying."

"I don't, Sam," Sansa smiled.

Samwell smiled cheerfully again, "Ser Brienne is right, given the information Ser Davos provided in the raven explaining Arya's wounds, it's a miracle she survived at all."

"Explain, Sam."

"Well, Davos' scroll said she took a spear in her right thigh, straight through. Could well have hit an artery. He said she lost a lot of blood even before they got her back to their encampment. He said she lost consciousness and was out of it when they laid her down in the healers tent and a terrible fever started. It is a miracle she didn't succumb to the wound and the fever. I've seen bigger men die to smaller wounds. You had every right to worry, as we all did, even me."

Sansa put a hand on Samwells shoulder, "Jon was lucky to have a friend like you at the Wall. You're a good man Sam. No matter what happens in the south, you, Gilly and your children will always have a home in Winterfell."

Samwell Tarly flushed and smiled nervously, "Well, thank you, Lady Sansa. It's a pity we are probably going to another war. Gilly and little Sam would have liked to see the south again. But they will be safer in Winterfell with Tormund and the Freefolk there."

"Agreed," Sansa said, removing her arm from Sam's shoulder. "Nor do I think the sight of burned down King's Landing would be pleasant for them."

"Lady Knight!"

The three of them turned to witness an exceedingly rotund young man waddling towards them, cherry red cheeks flashing with a smile.

"Hotpie!" Brienne said, greeting him. "Didn't see you inside."

"Oh, I was out back baking. I'm on me break now," Hotpie said, then when his eyes met Sansa, he stiffened, and his expression dropped. "Oh my, you look important."

"You're Hotpie?" Sansa asked.

"You know me, m'lady?"

"Hotpie, this is Lady Sansa of Winterfell," Brienne announced proudly.

"Lady... Sanza," Hotpie dropped his head and bowed awkwardly and rather amusingly.

"Arya told me about you and the travels she had with you and Gendry," Sansa said, smiling at Arya's chubby friend.

Hotpie's cherry red grin returned to his face. "Arry told me about you and your family a little when we travelled too. But there's been even more talk of you and her and Jon Snow, what with all the armies passing through."

"Indeed?"

"Oh yeah, the large army that came through a few weeks ago kept talking about the Battle o' Winterfell. It was mostly the Northmen, those black armoured ones spoke in some other language, and those angry-looking horse guys never came into the inn. But the Northmen spoke about how you fought in the crypts defending their wives and children, and how Jon Snow rode a dragon and fought, and how Arry saved the whole world or some such. I asked her about it when she came by a few days later, didn't speak much of it though."

"No, she wouldn't," Sansa agreed. "How was she when you saw her?"

"Oh, she was fine, had a nasty bruise on her face though. Probably from that battle. But she was with that Hound fella... which just seemed odd considering... but I keep hearing these stories that King's Landing was burnt down, are they true? Arry said she and the Hound were heading there. I hope she is okay."

"They are true, but Arya is alive and well."

"Oh, that's a relief. I'm happy she's safe, it was good to see her again... Just as it's good to meet you, Lady Sanza!"

"It's _Sansa_ , Hotpie," she corrected him.

He gave her a dubious look, "You sure?"

"I think I would know."

"Of course," he conceded with a grin. "Well I ought to get back inside, they don't let me have long breaks when we are this busy."

"You cook here?" Sansa asked before he could leave. "You make the pies? And cakes?"

"Anything with bread, cake, or crust is what I bake, Lady Sanza... erm, _Sansa._ "

"You are an excellent baker, Hotpie."

"Oh thank you, m'lady. You know the secret is to bake... you don't care about the secret, do you?"

"No. But I do care that what you make taste wonderful. We could use a good baker in Winterfell. Should you ever get tired of working here, you are welcome to come to Winterfell. You would live inside the castle and bake for Lords and Ladies, and your breaks would be much longer."

Hotpie's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped. He stuttered several times before he finally composed himself. "Oh, m'lady, I ain't never lived in no castle and I ain't never been north either. Isn't cold up there?"

"It's very cold even in summer, but the castle is heated by hot springs, which Winterfell was built on top of. The hot water is piped through the walls of the castle, warming it."

"It's rather cosy," Brienne added casually.

"Oh m'lady I don't know... The Brotherhood sold me to the Innkeep, and they've treated me well for this whole time. I.. I.."

"You are not a slave Hotpie. It is your choice. At some point I'll be returning to the North with Arya and hopefully Jon and when we stop at this inn you are welcome to join us on our return to Winterfell if you'd like. Think it over, any friend of Arya's is a friend of mine."

"Thank you, m'lady. I will think about it," Hotpie bowed clumsily again, said his goodbyes to Brienne and waved awkwardly to Samwell who he hadn't even spoken to. Sam returned the wave with a stiff hand and an uncertain smile, clearly not knowing what else to do in the situation.

They didn't leave the inn until noon, Sansa led the Northern army reinforced by a few hundred Knights of the Vale, upon her chestnut mare. As they crossed the Trident into the Crownlands, the thought of seeing Arya again warmed Sansa on the ride south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing this part. This is designed to show more of Sansa's personality, both the flaws and good parts of it, her ability to understand peoples intentions/motivations and to her ability to lead and manipulate.
> 
> It also has some set up for the next chapter.


	15. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reunites with her sister, they talk, argue and tease. Plans are made and Sansa shows a card to Gendry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me. Sansa's chapters are now going to be 3 parts just because its got so big. And because the next chapter is a battle and the aftermath of it. I didn't want people to read a massive chapter to get to it. I am kind of busy with work and life at the moment, but the next chapter will hopefully be in a few days. 
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos. It keeps me going with this. :)

Three more days had passed until they arrived at Arya's encampment. The stop at Harrenhal to join with Edmure Tully's Riverlander army took much longer than Sansa would have liked. Both because she wanted to see Arya and support her forces, and because the sight and smell of the burned down Harrenhal detested Sansa. As they finally left the black, cursed and ominous castle, she began to regret asking Robin to ride beside her, though she knew it needed to be so, as she could keep him on a leash. Yet he talked incessantly and wished Sansa to watch how he rode his horse, many more times than was necessary. He did nothing particularly exciting, she deemed, however at one point he pushed his spotted gelding so much it near bucked him off, which elicited laughter from Edmure who rode at the front of their procession of armies with Sansa. The noise of laughter directed at him sent through a burst of rage in Robin who yelled at his uncle, with threats of throwing him out the Moon Door or cutting off his horses legs. To Sansa's great relief it didn't result in an episode of his shaking sickness, though it still took her thin patience and a portion of sweetmilk to calm him. When the anger finally left Robin, Sansa used the downtime to explain to Edmure, Robin Arryns condition and to heed subtlety and muster whatever patience he had when dealing with 'Sweetrobin'.

Throughout the journey and to Sansa's pleasure, both Lord Royce and Captain Aberdale regaled her with stories of what Arya did, how she made devious plans for the Unsullied and charged at their shield-wall without hesitation.

"Fearless she was, my lady," said Royce. "A rare sight to see, especially from a woman, if you'll forgive me for saying."

She noticed Brienne scold at Royce's comment. He was a good man and loyal to Sansa, but he was old and had old notions of men and women, she decided.

"Ain't so rare," announced Aberdale. "Commander Arya fought like a shrieker at Win'erfell. A lot of the men saw it, so did Ser Davos. Then she killed tha' horned fucker and saved the whole world. I wasn't surprised ta see 'er fight those cockless fuckers withou' fear. Me n' all the soldiers of the north was right there seeing 'er fight. She wailed like a harpy and fought like a someone possessed. But I know she weren't. She saved 'er brother then leapt off his back to kill one o' them Unsullied fucks in mid-air." Aberdale made an exaggerated noise of disbelief. "Now tha' I ain't never seen — what a warrior. If I ever 'ave a daug'er I'll name 'er Arya an' hope she becomes even half a warrior like yer sister... An' apologies for me language, m'lady."

Though Sansa had known Aberdale for quite some time and trusted him as an honourable man, she did not know much about his past and deemed to learn more. She discovered that he had great respect for the Starks, even before he joined their army. He knew of the stories of Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon when he had been a soldier of the Glovers who had aided Stannis Baratheon failed attack on Winterfell against the Boltons. Instead of rejoining the Glovers — who had switched sides and agreed not to fight the Boltons if they took back their home of Deepwood Motte — Aberdale and a handful of Northmen fled west to Hornwood to join the men there. After which point he joined Jon and Sansa's army when the Hornwoods agreed to support them against the Boltons. Aberdale fought in the Battle of the Bastards, he explained that he was near dead until Sansa showed up with the Knights of the Vale, and the whole ordeal gave him even more respect for Jon and Sansa and the Starks. Thanks to his prowess in battle, Jon named him to Sansa's guard which at that time consisted of one hundred other men, he served in that position since, until joining Jon's army on the march south then renamed as Sansa's new Captain by Arya.

"I had a hundred men in my guard before the Long Night," Sansa stated as they rode their horse's side by side on the Kingsroad. "When you have time, find a hundred men that you trust or believe to be competent guardsmen and name them to my household guard. You will have command over them  _and_ responsibility for them and their actions, understood?"

"Aye, understood m'lady," Aberdale replied.

"You have family, Aberdale?" 

"Nay tha', m'lady. They all be dead."

"Sorry to hear, although as you are now the Captain of my guard, I would desire to know your family name."

"Well, all tha' lads call me Aberdale Greatbeard... Thanks to the..." Aberdale grinned and stroked his long brown beard which stopped at the centre of his chest.

Sansa smiled at his jest, "If you have a daughter named Arya Greatbeard, my sister might have unpleasant words with you."

Aberdale laughed heartily and wiped his eyes, "Aye, m'lady, she would. Not Greatbeard then, nay, me family name is Woodard."

"Captain Aberdale Woodard," Sansa said boastfully "I hope there will be future generation of Woodards that will be by the side of the future generations of House Stark."

"Aye!" he bellowed proudly, "I do as well m'lady!"

These conversations made her smile for the remainder of the journey, but that smile faded when they arrived at the northern outskirts of Arya's encampment. Sansa's eyes ran across the white and grey canvass tents that littered the campsite and the soldiers, healers, cooks, builders and others scurrying about the camp as busy as bees. And as her eyes fell further southward, she saw the desolation of what once was the great city of King's Landing. When Sansa left that city, she had no intention to return in a hurry, nor did she particularly care for the Capital or the people in it. However, the destruction, the crumble high walls, the all but fallen Red Keep in the distance, the horizon of death and devastation she viewed hit her with a dispirited sting deep inside her soul that painted her face.

"M'lady, are yer okay?" Asked the captain of her household guard.

Sansa blinked away her trouble, "I'm fine Aberdale. I want to see my sister."

"Aye, I thought so. I asked the lads stationed on guard. They say Warden Arya is in tha' command tent with the other lords."

"Take me there, Captain."

They dismounted their horses, and she followed Aberdale through the encampment toward its centre where the command tent was located. Brienne strode by her side. Lord Royce opted to stay behind with Robin Arryn as they reconnected with the other Knights of the Vale. Edmure Tully dallied behind Sansa after giving his orders to the officers of his army to begin making camp. As Sansa walked through the campsite, the people of the Northern military started to recognise her, and they bowed their heads low, paying her the due respects.

When they finally reached the tent, the two guards outside it peeled apart its canvas flap entrance and Sansa strode in. She saw the many northern lords inside standing around a large table layered with a map of the Crownlands and King's Landing. She ran her eyes across Lord Magnar, Lord Cerwyn, Lord Manderly, Lord Tallhart, Lord Ryder, and an old lord she did not recognise — with thin grey hair and a warm smile; his tattered green cloak was clasped together by a pin fashion with a black lizard-lion on a green field. The sigil of House Reed. Sansa narrowed her blue eyes when she spotted Gendry Baratheon, unsurprising that he was here, yet curious nonetheless, next to him was Ser Davos and beside him Podrick Payne who looked at Sansa with his wide toothless grin. Then she spotted Arya in between Davos and Podrick, shorter than all the rest. She stood in the centre of the men, her sword Needle in her left hand, pointing to a location on the map and her other hand had her weight on a walking stick crudely carved in the shape of a direwolfs head at the handle. Sansa stepped forward toward her sister in a rush but stopped herself suddenly as she felt the eyes of everyone fall upon her. She looked again at Arya, who had sheathed Needle and had a wide-eyed and eager look on her face.

Sansa hesitated, then spoke. "You look well, Commander," she said to Arya, who made no response, only the same look of eager happiness marked her.

"Lady Sansa, you're a welcome sight in these troubled times," remarked Lord Cerwyn.

Sansa smiled, "Many troubled times these days. I would speak to my sister alone. I know you will forgive me, my lords."

"You heard her!" Manderly roared, "Out the lot of ya! You too young, Podrick."

"You bloody deaf southerner?" Added Magnar scowling to Podrick, then laughed at him before turning to Sansa. "'Ave no fear my lady, we'll shove our swords up those foreigners bungholes, then it's on our way to the Red Keep to free Jon!"

He strode passed Sansa laughing then one by one; the lords exited out of the command tent slipping past her. When the last of them eventually left, Aberdale closed the flaps of the tent allowing Sansa and Arya to be alone finally, she sensed tears in her eyes suddenly and dropped her composed figure, she paced quickly around the table toward Arya, and the sisters fell into each other's arms.

"When I received the news that you fell in battle, I feared that I'd lose you," Sansa said in their embrace.

"Haven't got rid of me yet," Arya replied.

Sansa gave a teary chuckle and pulled back from the hug to face her sister, "I remember when you were an annoying little girl who used to throw food at me at feasts and get all your clothes dirty from playing with Jon and the boys, screaming like a she-wolf. Now I find you leading a host in war."

"You made me Warden," Arya said grinning.

"You became Warden in all but name when you took command."

"Not by want, there was no one else."

Sansa smiled, "No, there wasn't. Only bickering men and none of them are Starks."

She analysed Arya's face, noticing the deep scar above her eye that she received in the Battle of Winterfell. But Sansa also saw remnants of a bruise on the left side of her skull, and several faint — nearly healed cuts scattered around her face. 

Sansa ran her thumb across one that lined Arya's cheek. "You didn't have these when you left Winterfell."

Arya shook her head slowly, "Courtesy of Daenerys and Drogon."

She shook her head as the unsettling image of Arya in a dragon burnt city filled her mind. Then, gapping her mouth wide, Sansa discerned the state of Arya's leather armour, from chest to boots, it was a mess. "Hells Arya, your armour is covered in blood."

"And this has been cleaned. You should have seen it before."

"I'd prefer not too. Gods whoever cleaned this did a terrible job."

"You sound like mother," Arya smiled sadly. "How was your journey south?"

"Slower than I liked," Sansa confessed. "Though we did run into Nymeria and her wolfpack just after passing the Twins."

"You did?" Arya suddenly shouted with her face dropped. "What happened?"

"Everyone was quite on edge, and appropriately so, Nymeria had a large wolfpack with her. But I recognised her, mainly because she was three times the size of the other wolves. Hoping that she remembered me, I walked up to her, said her name, spoke to her. Told her we mean no harm and that we were riding south to help you, and I asked her not to hurt me or those that follow me."

"And?"

"She stopped growling. She stared at me for a while. Then she and all her wolves left."

"Huh..." Arya breathed with a small smile on her face, her mind clearly on the memory of her direwolf.

"We could use a pack of angry wolves in our army," said Sansa slyly.

"Wouldn't count on it, big sister."

"I know, Nymeria isn't a pet like Ghost is, or Lady or the other direwolves were. But could you imagine the sight of Nymeria's wolfpack charging with our army in a battle? An Unsullied shield-wall won't last long with them, I think."

"Stick to your needlework, Sansa," Arya said, a sneer on her lips.

Sansa took the mock on her chin, and she grinned wickedly when a teasing thought of her own came to her mind. "You know, I do love the name  _Arry._ It suits you, sister. Trust you to befriend a poor baker and sleep with a low-born bastard son of a king."

Arya caught on quick and rolled her eyes, "He isn't a bastard anymore."

"Was when you fucked him," Sansa replied devilishly. "Now it seems he can't leave your side. He's enamoured with you, Arya."

"Just like Robin is enamoured with you, Sansa. I met him on the road, you know."

"Yes, I've been told."

"Even a blind and deaf peasant can see how obviously Lord Arryn is infatuated with you. I'd rather Gendry any day than that little shit. So would you. See two can play at this game. Give it up. You met Hotpie? How is he?"

"I did, he's a nice boy. Seems well. Excellent baker. Have you had his lemon cakes? They're divine."

"Divine..." her little sister echoed suspiciously, "what have you done?"

"I offered him a job as a baker in Winterfell."

Arya's narrowed her dark eyes, "Why?"

"I thought that was obvious. I simply relish Hotpie's baking skills."

"There is nothing  _simple_ or  _obvious_ when it comes to what you do, Sansa. There are layers to your decisions, and you always think about the future, you think things through five steps ahead of others. We promised to be honest with each other, and Hotpie is my friend. So tell me the truth."

Sansa smiled fiendishly. She had to admit it; she was enjoying this war or words and teasing with her sister, but Arya was right; they were to be honest with each other. "Hotpie adores you and the friendship you shared, and I hope to continue that friendship and also to have another person in Winterfell that I can trust and rely on."

"I wouldn't say I trust him," Arya admitted. "He acts tough, but when he is afraid, he pisses his pants. When I met him, he was trying to bully me only because he was bigger. I threatened to gut his fat arse with Needle, and from then on, he was kind. He was a good friend to me, but he scares easily, and he's a fool."

"Fools can be useful," said Sansa confidently. "Besides, you'll have a friend back in Winterfell when we all return. And one that can make great lemon cakes to stuff ourselves with, at that."

"Mmm," Arya bemoaned in half an agreement. "I don't have a sweet tooth like you."

"Your loss. Wouldn't happen to have any wine in here?"

"Got ale."

"Better than nothing, I suppose."

Arya turned and walked quickly for someone using a walking stick, yet unsurprising to Sansa who understood how quick her little sister was —Arya headed towards a smaller table in the tent and poured a pitcher of ale into two cups. Then mosied back over, although Sansa wasn't particularly fond of ale, she wanted to enjoy something with her sister, and they did, the two of them drank deeply from their cups. They then took seats next to each other on chairs that resided near the large map table.

"How's your leg?" Sansa asked.

"Better than what it was. I don't like relying on the walking stick, but Davos' made it for me, and the healers and maesters say I should keep as much pressure off it as possible."

"You should listen to them. How about your mind? Have you had any more...  _issues_? Difficulty sleeping, anxious moments, bad memories haunting you? Like you said you had in Winterfell."

"A little, sometimes I see the Night King's face now too, especially when his scar burns my neck or wrists. But it doesn't happen as often since I took command."

"Well then, that's a good thing. The command is good for you, keeping your mind off things."

"Possibly," said Arya disenchanted. "But my mind has only been on other things now. Can't tell whether it is for better or worse yet."

"What  _things_?" Sansa queried with concern in her voice.

"Podrick said Bran was coming with you."

"Yes, he is with us. Why?"

"I need to speak to him. I had... dreams when I was out from the wound in my leg. I don't remember most of them, a man in the snow, weirwood trees and red leaves. And flames."

"Hmm, I have odd dreams sometimes too," Sansa admitted. "You killed the Night King in the Godswood under the weirwood tree, and the flames could be King's Landing burning. The dreams might have just been your mind reliving those memories. As mine often are."

"These weren't regular dreams you have when you sleep, they felt... different, and I had a vision as well... or a memory. It was as vivid as I see you now. I was in Winterfell, before all this, when it was summer. And Bran was there,  _standing_ next to me."

Sansa furrowed her brow thoughtfully, "Normally I wouldn't believe you. But with what I've seen you do, and the army of the dead, dragons and Bran's  _abilities._ Anything seems possible. Did Bran say anything in this vision."

"He said that what I saw could exist again, for someone else."

"Someone else?" Sansa repeated, "our little brother enjoys being cryptic, doesn't he. When we began riding south, I asked him if he could see if you and Jon were okay, all he said was that you were dreaming. He was right, I suppose. But that didn't bloody help me then. What do you think the vision or what he said meant?"

"I'm not sure. I remember the day he showed me though; The boys were outside helping Bran with his archery, you weren't there because you were inside knitting with Septa Mordane. Then mother and father showed up, then me after running off from knitting."

"Maybe it's a prophecy."

"You're the last person I'd expect to talk about prophecies."

"Normally I wouldn't but... after the Long Night, that Red Woman, Melisandre. Before she died, she spoke to me about how I had a prophecy she saw after she viewed you killing the Night King in her  _fires_."

Arya's eyes widened, and she sat up, "You never told me of this."

"I never spoke to anyone about it. Melisandre talked about a widow by my side, wolf cubs, a red wolf, a  _weirwood_ wolf and iron and animals," Sansa waved her hand mockingly. "Pfff, none it made sense. I prefer reality, facts, information, evidence, knowledge."

"You shouldn't brush it off, the prophecy she gave to me came true."

"Did you pay it any mind when she told it to you? How many prophecies would she have given in her long life that  _didn't_  come true? Even if the prophecy she gave me is true, what am I supposed to do with it? Obsess over it and end up like Stannis?"

Arya bit her lip and offered no answer to these questions.

"Besides, I don't care much for gods and prophecies and riddles," Sansa continued. "But I have to admit, with everything that's happened and Bran's powers and Melisandre seeing you win the Great War in her fires. It's made me think that there could be something to prophesy, perhaps. Maybe the  _Red God_ and the  _Old Gods_ do exist and help us somehow, through vessels like Bran and Melisandre. Maybe all the gods are just the same thing. Or maybe it's just a big stupid coincidence."

"I prefer not to think about it," said Arya disillusioned. "Death is the only god I know."

"Yes, I know. It is ironic you say that though, considering that you are the one who killed death after all."

"The Night King wasn't death or even a god. He was just an instrument of death."

"If that's the case, then so are you... An instrument of Death." Sansa grinned thinly at Arya, who was gazing at her cup, her fingers fidgeting with its edges. Clearly not interested in continuing further in Sansa's assessment of her. "Apologies Arya. Didn't mean to get into a whole philosophical conversation. And I'm sorry that I am not of much help with your dreams and visions, but that kind of stuff isn't my expertise. You should chat with Bran." 

"Thank you for listening anyway. I'll speak to Bran when I get the chance."

Sansa smiled warmly and took another drink. "Aberdale!" she called out, and the captain quickly entered the tent.

"M'lady?" he said.

"In the cart that Bran and Samwell rode in, is an oak chest. Bring it here." Aberdale nodded and left just as quickly as he entered. Sansa turned to her sister. "Thank you, by the way, for naming Aberdale as my Captain."

"Your welcome, about time you had better guards," Arya smirked. 

"You do know that Aberdale was apart of my guard long before you came back home?"

"He wasn't in charge, though. Samwell Tarly is here?" Arya replied, changing the subject.

"Yes, he wants to help Jon out any way he can."

"He's a good friend to Jon, but how does he intend to help?"

"No idea, sister. He insisted that he come."

"Gilly and little Sam?"

"Safe in Winterfell."

"And is Winterfell safe?" Arya urged.

Sansa smiled again at her sister, "Tormund and the Freefolk took their time to leave the castle. I took the opportunity to ask him to stay a while longer, just in case something happened. Then when I got your raven explaining what happened in King's Landing, what Jon and Tyrion did, and their situation, Tormund and the Freefolk agreed to stay and hold Winterfell until we returned."

"Freefolk are now Lords of Winterfell. I bet Tormund loves that."

"Temporarily. They love Jon, and I know Tormund respects me. He is a bit of a dense oaf, but he is a good man, he and the Freefolk will keep our home safe. I will not risk Winterfell falling a third time, no matter how small the risk may be now. The Freefolk are simple people; they have no ambitions, or power trips, or want to control. I'd prefer having them there than a skeleton crew of soldiers I don't trust."

"Me too," Arya repeated quietly. "When this is all over, will you keep rebuilding Winterfell to the way it was before the Boltons took it?"

"Of course, maybe better if that's possible, and not just Winterfell either, much of the North will need to be rebuilt. Last Hearth will need to be reconstructed and new lords named to it. The section of Wall that fell will have to walled off as best we can. The Gift will need to be mended for grazing and farming. Farmlands, mills, holdfasts and villages will need to built again after the army of the dead passed through and destroyed everything. You'll see little sister, the North will be rebuilt, and I will do my best to make all of it stronger than before. And you'll see Winterfell for yourself when you return. The builders and stonemasons have already made a lot of progress."

"Mmm."

There it was again, the unenthusiastic, half answer from Arya that flickered a sense of concern within Sansa as she eyed over her sister. After they dealt with Littlefinger, Arya promised not to wear her Faceless Man facade when her and Sansa were alone — devoting to show her real feelings and emotions when they spoke to each other in private. She was the same with Jon and Bran. And now, Arya had an uncharacteristically uncertain look to her face.

"What's wrong, Arya?" Sansa asked her.

Arya's eyes darted about the tent, then gazed back down at her now empty cup. "Just... thinking about home. You know... after the Battle of Winterfell, seeing all the death and destruction in our home. I never thought I would see something to that extent again, or at least not for a long time..."

"Until King's Landing?"

"Until King's Landing," Arya accepted.

"Tell me what happened when the Dragon Queen burned down the city."

The youngest Stark sister and commander of armies hesitated a moment but then began to recall to Sansa of the events prior, during and after the attack on King's Landing, though the tale was not a pleasant one. Arya spoke of how she entered the city with Sandor and how she helped him sneak through the Red Keeps grounds and the castle itself until he convinced her to flee and live, how she thanked him and he disappeared to find his brother. She spoke of the dragon relentlessly burning the city, the sight of the Dothraki charging and murdering harmless innocents. Sansa heard her talk about the heat of the dragonfire and the screaming of the people, how Arya was helped to her feet then unceremoniously covered and dust and debris. How she tried to help the civilians flee, only to bring them out to be cut down by Dothraki and then Arya watched the woman and child she was with get burnt to a black crisp by Daenerys and Drogon.

"I woke up, covered in dust, ash and blood," Arya said. "I found the girl and her mother wrapped around each other. They were burnt black by dragonfire like they... like they were nothing to Daenerys."

Sansa saw a tear in Arya's eye, "You did all you could, Arya. Far more than what most people would do."

Arya did not reply to that instead, she wiped the tear away and continued to retell the events. Speaking of the white mare that showed up from nowhere to help her flee the destruction, how she found Jon and how she listened to Daenerys'  _victory_ speech. Then the proceeding events afterwards, the cries of a dragon and the sight of Drogon flying east out of the Red Keep. Bran's raven that contained the note which confirmed what Arya feared and then her taking command of the armies. She described the confrontation with Grey Worm and the Unsullied and the ensuing battle, her breach of the shield-wall and her and Jon fighting together. How she was stabbed in her thigh and the proceeding moments of blackness and dreams and visions until she woke with Gendry beside her, she explained what he was doing here and the army of Stormlanders that was coming up the Blackwater Rush.

"What a bloody mess," Sansa said disheartened, once Arya had finished the tale. "I expected the Dragon Queen to do something drastic, not burn the whole damned city."

"Not the whole city," replied Arya. "I saw parts of it that weren't touched by Drogon."

"Untouched by Drogon, but untouched by the Dothraki?"

"Probably not," Arya admitted. 

"When did you see these untouched parts if you were trying to flee the dragon in the city anyway?" Sansa asked curiously.

"I... might have snuck back into the city a few days after I woke."

"Arya! You left your army and snuck into the city while you were still injured!?"

"I took a face and assumed an Unsullied; no one spotted me. I know what I am capable of. I left the command and all my orders to Davos."

Sansa was not at all content with this answer, but she knew she wouldn't win this argument. "Why did you do it?"

"I wanted to see what it was like in the city, and I wanted to see Jon."

"And?"

"The Unsullied and Dothraki aren't exactly getting along. I overheard Unsullied talking about Dothraki and how angry they are and how they want to kill Jon and us Northmen."

"You think they will attack?"

"I strongly believe it. That's the reason for all this," said Arya waving her hand across the map on the table.

"Jon... is he, okay?" Sansa asked, more concerned with Jon then some map.

"He is getting by. He hates himself for what he did."

Sansa nodded slowly.

"We spoke about you," continued Arya, fully knowing that was what Sansa was thinking. "I can't say how he feels about what you did, but I tried to explain it, defend you."

"Thank you, Arya. What else did you see in the city?"

"That it wasn't just the Dothraki that raided the city and killed the commoners. I saw Northern swords in the bodies of innocent people, and when I returned to camp, Davos told me that the Northmen attacked the commoners, men women and children; some even tried to rape the women. He and Jon were only some of the few that didn't partake and tried to stop it."

Sansa closed her eyes at the thought, hoping against hope it was not true.

Arya continued, her voice filling with rage, "We weren't the good guys, Sansa. 'The great Northern army come to free the people from a tyrant.' Our men were killers and rapists and plunderers who put to power another tyrant worse than the one before. Every time I remember that I am in command of the men who did that, it sickens me."

"Try not to think of it that way," Sansa offered. "I'm sure not all the men did those things."

"I find it a bit difficult to think about sweet pudding and kittens, Sansa. They should be punished, or at least shown what they have done with the heat of battle gone."

"It's not that simple, Arya."

"It ought to be."

Sansa contemplated her stubborn sister, then sighed heavily. "No matter what I do; in the heat of battle, when their blood is up, they will resign to their base instinct. And if I punish them too much, we will lose our army. We can only hope to steer them in a different direction, not to control them, Arya. Men can become beast."

"Davos' isn't. Beric Dondarrion wasn't. Jon isn't. Even Sandor knew when to stop," Arya replied defiantly.

"That is why they were knights and leaders and great warriors. Not simple men requisition into an army, who just barely survived an onslaught by an army of dead."

"Are you justifying what they took part in at King's Landing?" Arya blurted with ire in her expression.

"No, I'm not. I'm trying to see through their point of view. Which you have to often do as a ruler."

"I'm no ruler. Don't expect me to do that."

An uneasy silence filled the tent and Sansa rose from her chair, returning to the table behind them where the pitcher of ale resided and begun filling her cup. 

"Sandor," she said, as the ale trickled into the pewter. And she turned her head to see the back of Arya's. "Did he..." She could see Arya's head nod up and down slowly.

"Maybe he lived, he survived quite a lot," said Sansa hopefully.

"No one could have survived what he walked into, not even Sandor," Arya said in a monotone voice.

Sansa, with the pitcher in hand, walked back over to Arya and poured ale into her empty cup then placed the pitcher on the map table. She rose her cup hand above her head, Arya realising what she was doing, stood from her chair and rose her cup likewise.

"To Sandor Clegane..." Sansa hesitated a moment, looking to her sister's sad eyes. She lifted her chin and continued. "And Beric Dondarrion. Great warriors and good men."

"Aye," agreed Arya.

"Aye," replied Sansa. "I wish I got to know Beric more."

"So do I," 

They tapped their cups together, and they drank slowly.

"I could do with your help with the Stormlords, actually," said Arya, holding her cup to her chest.

"How?" 

"To get them to fight for us, their men will be invaluable. Gendry and I have both tried, but they don't trust Gendry, and they don't particularly believe in me being commander of the armies. _And_  because the Dragon Queen is dead, they think they have nothing to fear if they don't follow him. Not too mention that they are as stubborn as Northerners."

"I'll see what I can do," and Sansa took another sip of ale.

At this, the entrance to the tent spread open, and Aberdale entered with another soldier, carrying an oak chest between them. The captain apologised for taking so long to return as he placed the chest in the corner of the tent, then left. Sansa nodded towards it, urging Arya to open the chest. She did so tentatively, and with wide eyes and a suspicious look she pulled out a black leather doublet with iron studs and with her other hand she pulled out matching black leather tassets also studded with iron. Arya gave Sansa a toothy grin and placed the armour on the table, then went back into the chest for the final piece. A half-cloak, similar to her own but this one was a dark blue on the topside, and the underside was lined with grey wolf fur. 

Arya placed the cloak next to the other items on the table and looked up to Sansa. "Did you have these made for me?"

"No.  _I_ made them," said Sansa with a proud smile. "Started making them before Jon and the Dragon Queen came to Winterfell. Never had the time to finish them with all that was going on, and we had to use a lot of material for the people fleeing and seeking protection, so I didn't have much to chose from. But when the Night's Watch came to Winterfell, they brought quite a bit of extra materials; it was mostly black and dark colours, however. But I know you don't fancy colourful things so I knew you wouldn't mind if it were primarily black — another connection you have to Jon as well, he and you always looked good in black."

"Sansa I... Thank you," said Arya earnestly, then she ran her fingers across the doublet. "I like the iron studs."

"Thought you might. They were the last thing I added. Remind you of anyone?"

"Sandor," Arya replied quickly. "His gambeson was covered in iron studs."

"Yes," Sansa said, smiling. "Glad I was able to finish them all before I left Winterfell, given the state of your armour and clothing now. There are some breeches, gloves and boots in the chest too."

"I'll change into them once we deal with the Dothraki."

"Yes, I suppose we ought to get to that. Tell me about your plans for the defences."

"I'll show them to you. Before I do, though, there is something you need to know," said Arya ominously.

Sansa furrowed her brow, "Well no need to wait on ceremony, sister. What is it?"

"When I snuck into King's Landing, I went and saw Tyrion as well. Wanted his opinion on the Dothraki and Unsullied."

"Oh, how does he fare, what was his opinion?"

"He is his same old self, only now full of self-pity. He thinks the Dothraki might attack but not Grey Worm and the Unsullied."

"I suppose he would know," Sansa said uncaring.

"That's not all, Sansa."

"Then what?"

Arya took her cup off the table and took a long drink, then sighed. "Grey Worm told Tyrion, then he told me. I think he expected me to kill her... save her from her pain or something. Sansa, apparently Cersei is still alive."

Sansa lifted her chin, "Interesting."

"That's one way of saying, I guess. She is being kept barely living by the Unsullied, so they can punish her when she is conscious of it. If they haven't already." 

 _Cersei Lannister is still alive? According to Grey Worm, who could just be toying with Tyrion._  Sansa thought. One of her tormentors while she lived in King's Landing. The golden-haired bitch, the relentless lioness of Lannister who was dangerous, but not as smart as she though herself to be.

"Next, you'll tell me the Dragon Queen is alive." Sansa mocked.

"You don't believe me?" Arya said scolding.

"I don't believe Grey Worm, and I have a hard time believing Tyrion who is locked in a cell and has no evidence that his sister is alive aside from the word given to him by an enemy. Grey Worm could be toying with Tyrion."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he hates him, your raven said Tyrion betrayed the Dragon Queen and likely contributed to her death. Grey Worm won't torture his prisoners physically, but he can mentally."

"Strange thing to lie about, and a strange way to  _torture_ someone."

"Essosi are strange people. Even if Cersei is alive, I don't particularly care for it. Let the Unsullied do what they want with her."

"Now you're the one lying, sister," said Arya with a knowing look. "You are the smart one, so tell me. Why would Grey Worm say that Jaime Lannister died and Cersei lived? If he intended to toy with Tyrion, wouldn't the opposite be more effective? Everyone knew Jaime and Tyrion were close with how much they stuck to each other in Winterfell."

Sansa had no answer for this. She clenched her jaw frustrated but also slightly proud that her sister tricked her so. And Sansa had to admit to herself; there was a part of her that did not want to believe that Cersei might be alive, that she would walk into the city where Cersei Lannister may have been only a few blocks away from her. Yet there was also a part of her that wanted to see Cersei, alive. She wanted to speak to the lioness and show her what the  _little dove_ had become and she wanted to watch Cersei suffer, for all that she had done to Sansa and her family. Deep in Sansa's mind, however, there was an inkling of respect that she had for Cersei Lannister, something Jon had seen back in Winterfell.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "You're too smart for your own good," she said matter-of-factly to Arya. "We've prattled about for far too long. We should head outside and gather the others so you can show us these defences and plans."

"Of course. Right this way,  _my lady_ ," replied Arya with a wicked smile.

* * *

 

"Hello uncle," said Arya after Edmure had hugged her rather tightly.

Sansa smiled faintly at the humorous look Arya gave her.

"I never got to thank you for freeing me from that cell," Edmure said. "So thank you."

"You look well, my lord."

"Ahh, I feel well. And I get to see my nieces and nephew all grown up. I only wish you could meet my wife and son..." Edmure gave a glance to Sansa as he spoke.

"I'm sure I will one day. But right now we have many pressing things to discuss."

Clouds masked the sun as they all followed Arya along the southern edge of the encampment, she limped by on her walking stick while she explained the plans and defences. Edmure walked casually by Sansa's side, Brienne and Podrick on her other. Robin, flanked by Royce and Morton, strolled by and listened to Arya with a disinterested look. Gendry walked beside Davos, both of them listening intently. Aberdale, with a few other Northmen, surrounded them as they walked.

"Over the last week or so, I've had the men cutting down tree's to make these," said Arya, and she gave a nod to a Northern soldier who pulled a line that was connected to a tent. The tent fell forward to reveal a gaping hole in the ground with thick and sharp pieces of wood protruding out of it, the wood was slick and lined with something amber and oily.

"Trenches, like at Winterfell," said Sansa.

"Yes, but they are hidden by these tents," Arya said. "All along this southern side of camp, from the hill to the trees. We have dug trenches and filled them this wood. The wood is covered in resin which will catch fire quickly — the Dothraki charge at our foot-soldiers that await them in the camp. Then, if we time it right, men will pull the tents down and retreat, the Dothraki will either keep charging forward, and their horses will fall into the pit which will be set alight by flaming arrows. Or they will stop their charge, at which point — Knights of the Vale will come out of the tree line from across the Kingsroad to the east, and Riverlander and Northern Cavalry will come out from over the hill to the west. The Northern Lords already know the plan. We will give signals when each army is ready to move. If we time everything right, we will catch the Dothraki in a pincer move and flank each of their sides as archers rain arrows at the from the encampment, and the foot-soldiers move forward to attack the Dothraki front and deal with any that may have survived the flaming pits."

There was a moment of silence between the group as they all looked around at the pit and the tents. Robin, for a reason oblivious to Sansa, was staring up into the sky.

"Good plan," Edmure said. "When do you expect the Dothraki to attack?"

"I don't know," Arya answered.

Lord Edmure scoffed contemptuously, "How do we know they  _will_ attack?"

"I have trusted information to suggest they will."

"Well, could you share where you got this information—"

"If my sister says the Dothraki will attack, then they will," Sansa said.

Edmure cut her a glare but nodded in acceptance.

"I've had the army doing drills so they can prepare as quickly as possible should the Dothraki suddenly charge," said Arya. "If you wouldn't mind informing your lords and officers to—"

"Why do we even need all this?" interrupted Robin Arryn with an aloof look on his face. "We outnumber them, don't we? And they are no match for my Knights of the Vale. Let them charge, and we will destroy them. I truly don't see how they can win against us or why we need all this."

Sansa watched as her little sister ground her teeth. Arya spoke, trying to hide her frustration, "My lord, I know we have a good chance to defeat them. But my goal is to limit the number of casualties we have. A straight charge of Dothraki against our forces,  _even_ your knights, would kill thousands of our men. And a fight with the Dothraki may not be the only one we have."

A slap across his face would have given Sansa immense joy after she watched Robin shrug off Arya's explanation, but she knew it would not do. "We may not face a battle at all," she said.

"What do you mean?" asked Edmure.

"I'm here now, as well as half of Westeros' lords. We will have to assume that the others have arrived at King's Landing. I'll send a rider to the city to inform Grey Worm that we are ready to talk," Sansa turned to her Captain. "Aberdale, can you organise some men to deliver a message to the city?"

"My lady," Ser Morton Waynwood stepped forward clutching his helm between his chest and arm. "It would be my honour to deliver this message."

"Ser Morton, being a messenger is hardly a task for a landed knight," objected Sansa.

"I can't help but disagree, Lady Sansa. To have the honour to deliver your essential words in such a dire time is a great deed. And not to diminish the abilities of your own men, but it seems to me that a respected, experienced and well-read knight would be a better conveyor to this Grey Worm if that is not too presumptuous to say."

Sansa smiled at him, "Are you sure you want to do this, Ser?"

"Yes, my lady. My son Roland will stay by my lord Robin's side. Your captain can give me a few Northmen, and I will take a few Knights of the Vale, and we will ride together for the city post-haste."

"Captain Aberdale, see it done," said Sansa and the two men marched off together with their new goal.

"That will be all my lords," Arya said watching the two men leave. "If you would speak to your men so that we are all on the same page I would be pleased."

Robin Arryn and Edmure Tully were the next to leave, surrounded by their men. Gendry proceeded to go, but Sansa stopped him, "Would you stay a moment, Lord Gendry, I wish to speak to you."

He nodded uncertainly, darting his eyes like he was in trouble. But it was Brienne who spoke first.

"Commander Arya," she said. "Forgive me, but there is something on my mind... You were in the city during and after the attack?"

"I was," said Arya.

"You didn't happen to see Ser Jaime at all?"

Arya breathed in deeply, and put more weight on her walking stick, evident to Sansa that she was lamenting having to be the one bringing this news to Brienne. And when Sansa looked to the knight of Tarth, she could tell it was not going to be anything good.

"Ser Jaime... Jaime Lannister died Brienne. I spoke with Tyrion Lannister, he saw it for himself," Arya answered solemnly.

Brienne's face went a pale dread, and she starred at the ground for a long moment.

"Ser Br—"

"Could I be excused, my ladies?" Brienne asked curtly.

"Of course, Brienne," said Sansa. The knight turned quickly and walked away, keeping her head facing the ground. 

Podrick stepped to follow her, but Davos put an arm on the young squire's shoulder. "Come Pod. Best leave the Lady Knight alone. You can tell me all these rumours I've heard coming from Wintertown about you."

"Rumours?" Gendry asked furrowing his brow as the two men strode off.

"Better you don't ask, or you might get jealous," Sansa answered with a coy smile. "Arya tells me you've had difficulty speaking to your Stormlords?"

"Aye, they don't see the benefits of helping you. They barely accepted my command to go to King's Landing. I tried to reason with them. I tried to make them remember Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark. I even tried to be kind to them, showed them I cared, like you suggested, my lady, back in Winterfell."

"Kind?" Arya blurted with a scrunched up face, visibly confounded by her ex-lovers words. "Showed them you cared? Did you at all even think to remind them who you are? The people you know, the power they have and the relationship you have with them?"

"No... I tried to do what Sansa said. She said to show you care, not use fear."

" _I said_ , fear has its place," Sansa corrected him.

Arya whacked him in his chest with her walking stick, "You're a dolt. The lords need to fear you as well. You think the Lords of the North follow and listen to Sansa purely because she says pretty words, has a pretty face and wears pretty dresses? No, they fear her wrath should they betray or disappoint her. She has hundreds of men loyal to her that would happily fulfil her wish should she need to bring fear into her lords. You think she had Petyr Baelish executed in front of dozen of Knights of the Vale and Lords of the North because it was convenient? She did it to show what happens when people betray her. She did it to show she is not afraid to bring justice and to show the skill and power of her family. Do you think she had Ramsay Bolton eaten alive by his hounds because she was concerned that the dogs were hungry? She did that to send a message and to show that she can be ruthless when she needs to be. The people of the North love her, the Lords of the North love her,  _and_ they fear her."

Sansa only starred unblinking as Gendry gazed at her, "You were the one who fed Ramsay to his hounds?" he said.

"You didn't know?" asked Arya.

"I heard stuff when I was in Winterfell, but I didn't pay much attention to them, thought they were just rumours."

Sansa lifted her chin and spoke with cold calculated voice. "Long ago, my ancestors spared the Boltons, trusting their oaths of fealty. I corrected that mistake. House Bolton and all its banners are no more. Even the North can forget when there's nothing left to remember. House Glover will be next. Gather your Stormlords, Lord Baratheon. I will speak to them."

Storm's Ends Lord Paramount starred at Sansa, uncertain of her. Then he nodded and left the Stark sisters alone surrounded by their household guard. The two stared at him as he walked away, his golden yellow tunic bristling in the breeze.

"From what I heard, Gendry fought well at Winterfell. His lords should see him fight and lead men in battle. That would help him a great deal," Sansa contemplated.

"It could happen if we're lucky. Or unlucky," said Arya. "That knight, Ser Morton. Do you trust him?"

"He and his family were only ever kind to me. The Waynwoods hold a great deal of influence in the Vale."

"That's nice. Cersei was kind to you once too."

"I know what you are implying, Arya. I'm not a fool anymore who trusts someone only because they were kind to me. The Valemen are very honourable, the Waynwoods even more-so. I trust their honour."

"And honourable men are predictable?" Arya ventured.

"Indeed."


	16. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings result in plans. Plans result to war. And war results to loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is the big one. The final of the three part Sansa chapter. Sorry it took a lot longer than I had planned, it kinda got away from me.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, let me know your thoughts. :)  
> Some parts might seem bit rushed as I wanted to get it finished, let me know of any improvements that could be made.

Sansa and her sister returned to the command tent where Arya began to look over the map again. Taking a hand, she moved small square stones painted with a wolf head — to mark Stark armies, a falcon — to mark Arryn armies, a fish for Tully's and in the south-west, across the river called Blackwater Rush, a stone with a stag on its hind legs for the Baratheon army. Sansa watched as Arya continued moving the pieces and pacing around the edge of the table, her weight on her walking stick, staring intently at the map as she walked. Some moments prior, on their way back to the tent, the sisters met with Samwell Tarly and Bran. Arya hugged her little brother affectionately, and he smiled in return, showing his sisters that he still had humanity. Arya and Bran shared a knowing look between each other, before Arya greeted Samwell next, who showed his admiration for what she had accomplished and his gratefulness for helping Jon as she did. As the three talked, about nothing particularly noteworthy, Sansa noticed Bran's eyes slowly going from Arya to Sansa, his melancholy gaze staring through them.

 _Of all the people in the world, I don't think I will ever understand or properly know Bran_ , thought Sansa as she returned his gaze. _Why he is the way he is, what he thinks, what he 'sees'. He does know things, yet keeps it from us. He gives Arya visions but doesn't explain why. He probably knew about Arya and Jon's circumstances before we arrived, but did not try to ease my mind or sate my curiosity. I wouldn't be surprised if he knows what is going to happen over the next few days. He probably knows that Cersei is still alive too. My little brother knows the history of our world. This makes him wise, and I know he is smart. There has to be a reason why he wanted to come all this way south. I told him not to worry. That I would take care of it and he would be safer in Winterfell. But he insisted, even said that we would need him. What is he thinking? What does he know?_

Now in the tent, she continued to think on Bran and his odd ways. About Jon locked up somewhere in King's Landing. And the Unsullied and Dothraki. She even thought about Cersei — The Lioness that should be dead. As she reflected, she watched Arya move the falcon stone on the map, to the south side of the encampment, then the silver trout stone beside it, next, the wolf stone in between the two.

"Why didn't you kill Cersei?" Sansa blurted, surprising herself. 

Arya's fingers lingered on the wolf stone, caught off guard by the sudden question. She slid her hand back, then placed both on her cane.

"You had the opportunity when you infiltrated King's Landing," Sansa resumed. "I doubt a few guards would have stopped you. They didn't prevent you from seeing Jon or Tyrion, he who told you Cersei was alive and wanted her to die quickly."

"Sandor spent his whole life fuelled by revenge," began Arya, staring at the wolf stone. "It consumed him, turned him into a hateful person. He saved my life more than once, and in more ways, than someone could. He wanted me to live, to let go of hate and revenge. Beric and Lady Crane saved me as well," The deep-set eyes of Arya raised, staring at Sansa. "I can't waste what they did for me. I'm done with revenge. I won't let it consume me. I won't let it control my life or the choices I make. I'll live how I want, maybe even help people. Killing Cersei will gain me nothing, and it won't help anyone. She is no longer a threat to us, and she will die soon."

"As long as she breathes, she will always be a threat to me," replied Sansa with cold intent, but she relaxed her shoulders, and gave her sister a warm smile. "I understand, though. I'm glad you've chosen life over revenge, I apologise for bringing it up. Think your battle plan will work?"

Returning the smile, Arya moved across the table. "I can only hope," she took a hand, and moved the stag stone northward up the Blackwater Rush, putting it to a stop parallel to their encampment, yet still on the western side of the river.

"You don't want the Stormland armies to cross the crownlands and head directly to us?" Sansa ventured.

"No," began Arya. "Don't want to risk them passing by King's Landing out in the open. They would be unprepared if the Dothraki charged at them."

"End up like the Lannisters and Tarlys on the Goldroad."

"Exactly. If you convince the Stormlords to join us, Gendry knows my plans he will tell his lords. You won't have too."

"Aren't you going to join us at the meeting?"

Arya shook her head slowly, staring at the map. Sansa expected as much, this was politics, not her sister's area nor was it something she ever cared for. Arya moved the stag stone to the encampment, placing it in front of all the other stones, then she moved another stone marked with a curved blade — the Dothraki Arakh. She slid the stone up towards the others, stopping it short. "This is politics; this is your game. I already tried to talk to them, and I don't want to try again, or even be present when you try, I have thin patience for them and their words, and I don't like crowds. I'm tired of being around them. They all look to me as a hero, or their leader, for guidance or strength or something, even the Northern lords do. I don't want it, and I'm tired of talking; I want to be alone for a while."

"That's what people in our position deal with, the responsibilities of setting an example, being a person others look too — leading people, guiding people. Making difficult choices. And helping people to."

Arya sighed slowly, letting her shoulders drop. "I didn't want this position. I want to help people, but I don't want all the attention with it."

"I presume you will rarely get a choice in that, little sister. If there was anything I can agree with the Dragon Queen on, is her giving you the Hero of Winterfell title. With that and as Warden of the North you can—"

"When this is all I over, I'm not going to be Warden anymore," said Arya interrupting. "I don't want to be Warden or Commander or called a hero. I just want to be Arya Stark."

Sansa could not hide the disappointment in her face. "I knew you preferred to be alone these days, but I had hoped you would stay on... The title is honourary in peacetime, and you would be dealing with me mostly..."

The slow shaking of Arya's head dissuaded Sansa from any hope.

"Well... We'll have to find someone else then," said Sansa. "Maybe I'll even do it, but I would appreciate your advice and support back in Winterfell."

Arya lifted her dark eyes, her face full of remorse. "Sansa... I'm not going ba—"

The flap entrance of the tent flew open, the sisters turned and looked as Captain Aberdale stepped in.

"Forgive me, my lady. Commander," said Aberdale. "Lord Baratheon is here."

She nodded her head in acceptance, then Sansa turned back to her sister. "What were you going to say?"

"Doesn't matter. Not important right now," Arya replied.

"The Stormlords are ready to speak in our tent," proclaimed Gendry with abruptness, who had swiftly entered the tent at Aberdale's request.

Sansa tilted her head at his tone, but it was Arya who was quicker, her ability to read a persons face, clearly hadn't wained, thought Sansa.

"What's wrong?" Arya asked.

Gendry had a distasteful look, " _My lords_ are a pain in my arse. Complain about everything, don't listen to me. Think I'm just a boy. It's starting to anger me."

"Good. When you speak to them, use that anger," Arya turned to Sansa. "If something happens while I'm gone, give the order to blow the horn, and I'll return," she grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows from the corner, made sure her sword belt and swords were comfortable around her waist, picked back up her tree carved cane and then limped quickly out of the tent. By the time Sansa and Gendry stepped out, Arya had disappeared from everyone's sight.

Podrick and Brienne followed behind as Sansa and Gendry walked together through the encampment toward the Baratheon tent. The ruckus of soldiers and the array of support personnel preparing the defences bustled around them.

"You know you can send your servants or soldiers, or even a maester to do your bidding. Don't have to do things yourself anymore, especially menial things," Sansa said, looking at the burly Stormlord striding beside her.

"Always done things myself. Force of habit, I guess," Gendry replied.

"You are a Lord now; you have people that can do things for you, and you will need them to. There will come a point where you will be too busy to do things yourself. And even though every morsel will not want too, you will have to rely on other people, because you will have other pressing responsibilities."

"Thank you, my lady. But how do I know who to rely on, who to trust?"

"You won't, at first," several men carrying logs for the pits and sticks meant for arrow shafts came hustling in front Sansa and Gendry, causing them to stop in their path. Sansa took this opportunity to look the Baratheon in his blue eyes. "I trust Tyrion Lannister, the brother of my tormentor Cersei Lannister, a man from an opposing house responsible for the war against my family and the death of my parents and brother. Do you know why I trust him?"

Gendry just shook his head, utterly oblivious to the answer.

"I trust Lord Tyrion because I know him. I know what makes him tick, I know how he thinks, and I know he is a good man. It's the same with Brienne, and Arya and Jon. That is how you know who to trust."

The path cleared, Gendry nodded as they marched on.

"You will have people in Storm's End to help you rule," Sansa added. "Over time, you will learn who to trust, and who not too. And if a battle in happens in the coming days your soldiers and lords will see you lead an army and fight, this will give them a great deal of respect for you, and word will spread. Which will make ruling a little easier. But it won't be enough, it never will be... However, you will have people in Winterfell to help, should you need it. Just as they are helping now. Arya was right before, don't be afraid to use your anger to produce fear. Fear has its place."

Through strands of her red hair out the side of her eye, she saw Gendry continuing to nod in acceptance, appearing to be taking all she said in. She gave a small grin as quiet fell between them and saw a hundred paces in the distance, the Baratheon tent.

"Speaking of Arya, is she alright?" asked Gendry, breaking their moment's silence. "Something seems to be bothering her."

"I think she is okay, just tired of all the people. Want's to be alone for a little while," Sansa answered.

"Hard to believe she is that same Northern girl I travelled the Riverlands with. Used to talk all the time. She's still fearless and rebellious like she was back then, but she's changed a lot too."

"There is still my sister beneath all of it, still parts of her from our childhood. But yes, she has changed. When we were children in Winterfell, she would always try and explore the castle, speak to people and the guards; they called her Arya Underfoot for all the sneaking around and exploring she did. Now I think she still likes exploring. The talking, though, not so much."

"She has seen a lot. So have you, I assume," Gendry's long strides kept in pace with Sansa's smaller steps.

"We've both changed, and we both have our scars. Physical or otherwise," Sansa stated, making sure her chin was high, and they took a final step, standing at the opening of the golden canvas, Baratheon tent. At the entrance and around the canvas, adorned on wooden post raised high and bristling in the wind, were golden flags emblazoned with a black stag, powerful in pose. "Let's begin."

Inside several soldiers displaying varying sigils on their armour stood guard at the backs of the tent, in its centre lay a long and heavy wooden table, with six chairs, three on each side. Arrayed on top in a straight row across its middle were copper pitchers and cups and behind the table stood three men, their tunics and doublets embellished with the sigils of their different houses.

Gendry began the introductions. "My lords, this is Lady Sansa Stark, of Winterfell. Lady Sansa these are the three Stormlords who have joined me at your camp, the other lords are with our army across the Blackwater Rush. This is Lord Cortnay Penrose, of Parchments," Gendry motioned to a bald man with a wispy, barely noticeable faint red beard and a round face, his tunic adorned with the sigil of white crossed gulls, on a brown field.

"Lord Aemon Estermont, of Greenstone," Gendry held out his hand in direction to a thin and tall man in the centre of the three. His hazel beady eyes were staring at Sansa, and his doublet wore a sigil of a turtle on a green field.

"And Lord of Evenfall, the Evenstar. Lord Selwyn Tarth, of Tarth," Gendry nodded toward him, and Sansa tilted her head at the old man.

"Selwyn Tarth?" she said. Then turned her head behind her where Brienne and Podrick stood. Brienne had a broad smile looking at her father.

"Indeed, my lady," said Lord Selwyn, brushing a wisp of grey hair from his forehead. He had a kind face with large sapphire coloured eyes like Brienne's, but the man was aged, and his gut protruded from him evidently. In the centre of his tunic, curving across his fat belly was the sigil of House Tarth, quartered — a yellow sun on a rose field and white crescent moons on a blue field. "And I know who you are Lady Sansa. Thanks to the few raven's I received from Brienne while she was at your home of Winterfell, she has told me much about you."

"I certainly hope not," Sansa said with a smile.

"Hah! I'm sure there is much more I don't know. But it is always better that way, isn't it? Please sit."

"You and Brienne have had a chance to talk in the camp?" asked Sansa as she took a seat at the table opposite the three men taking theirs. Gendry sat beside her, Ser Brienne and her squire Podrick sat further back from the table, behind Sansa.

"Absolutely, we caught up, and I met her squire and some of the other lords while you were with your sister in the command tent. Would you like some wine, my lady?"

"Please."

Selwyn clicked his fingers, and a squire came out from the corner, grabbed a pitcher from the table and poured purple coloured wine into a cup then placed it in front of Sansa.

"A drink to anything, my lady?" Selwyn asked, holding his cup full of wine.

"Enough with the pleasantries," Lord Cortnay Penrose said brusquely. "They are a waste of time. We know why you are here, Lady Sansa, and the answer is no."

"How about a drink to people who don't interrupt good conversation," Sansa said, deliberately ignoring Lord Penrose. Selwyn held his cup up in tandem with her, and they drank together. She placed her wine cup down and eyed Penrose, who gave her a scolding look. "Is something wrong, Lord Penrose?"

"We agree to meet with you, having to explain ourselves for a second time, to another Stark woman and you sit there and insult me!" he said snarling.

"That wasn't an insult, my lord," Sansa replied. "That muck, is that a beard or did you forget to wipe the dirt from your face? I've seen women with thicker moustaches. That was an insult."

Penrose slammed the table and rose to his feet. "How dare you! I will not sit here and be insulted by you."

"So you'd prefer to stand?" Sansa said coldly.

She could almost hear his grinding teeth as Penrose stared at her angrily. "This is a farce I will not be apart of! We will not have our men rush north because some girl you made Warden has it in her head that this camp full of thousands of men will be attacked. Nor would we because some pretty lady tries to woo us, and insult us. We don't owe you anything, and we've all read the scrolls you sent to Gendry and around Westeros. We won't be fooled or intimidated by your fancy words or veiled threats."

"What veil?" replied Sansa calmly. "Understand this. I will not be intimidated or talked down to, by a grumpy, insecure, old man. And that _girl_ is my sister. You had best remember that Lord Penrose."

Sansa saw the muscles in Cortnay's jaw clenching while he gawked at her. "Our answer is no. We have all agreed on it already," he said.

"Please take a seat, Cortnay. I haven't agreed to anything," Selwyn Tarth added, swirling his cup of wine then taking a long drink from it.

"And you, Lord Estermont?" Sansa asked the thin lord.

Aemon Estermont straightened in his chair. "Your sister called me, and I quote, 'a lanky, limp dick fool of a man whose throat I am resisting every temptation to slit.'"

Sansa sighed at what her sister had said, but could help but grin at it too. "Well, Arya has always been quick to judge and quick with her tongue."

"Seems like you're not much different," Penrose said with a disdainful look and flared cheeks.

"Are you doing a puff fish impression, Lord Penrose?" Sansa mocked, smiling at him. "It's quite well done."

His cheeks went redder than Sansa thought was possible, but before Cortnay Penrose could rebuke her again, Lord Estermont spoke.

"Commander Arya Stark did a poor job of trying to convince us, I was intrigued to see what you do, but if this is going to be a battle of insults, I will leave."

"Fair enough," Sansa agreed." May I ask, Why is that you refuse to aid us?"

"I have already told you," Penrose spluttered, who had sat back down in his chair. "May  _I_ ask, if all goes as you plan. Do you intend to have this 'Jon Snow' or 'Aegon Targaryen' or whatever his name is, crowned as king? You spoke a great deal about him in your scroll."

"His name is Jon Snow, he was raised as a Stark, and he is our brother, and he is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

"So you do. What makes him so special, hmm? All I see is narcissism, put family on the throne to put yourself ahead."

"That's not what narcissism means, and if I wanted to put myself ahead, I would put myself on the throne. Jon Snow was crowned King in the North, not because of name or birthright. But because he is a leader of men and a good ruler, I have seen it myself. He made allies of enemies, he is a highly skilled and veteran warrior, and he led all the armies that he gathered, against the army of the dead during the Long Night. Now he has a name and birthright and the ability to lead our nation to peace, and over half of Westeros loves him."

"Pah!" Penrose spat. "The Long Night, we've heard the tales—"

"They weren't tales. I was there, Ser Brienne and Podrick were there. Jon led against an overwhelming force of death; he led and fought on top of a dragon. And thousands of Northmen and Valemen died protecting Westeros while you sat comfortably in your castles. And my sister, you call nothing but a  _girl_ , fought harder than anyone, and she saved the entire world from becoming a graveyard. If you don't believe me, ask the thousands of men in our camp, if that isn't enough, go and ask the Unsullied and Dothraki. They were there too."

None of the lords tried to question her this time, and Sansa straightened herself, breathed deep and took a swig of wine to calm her rising nerves. "This is all besides the point. And not what we are here to discuss. Lord Penrose, do not think I am stupid. There are other reasons behind the facade of you caring about your men. You don't trust Gendry; I understand that. He was just a blacksmith, now all of a sudden he is the son of Robert Baratheon."

Penrose eyed Gendry and Sansa a moment. "And there is no proof of that aside from words. Words are wind."

"Proof?" Sansa scolded. "My lords, look to your Lord Paramount. You do not need a queen to make clear, the distinct similarities Lord Gendry has to Robert Baratheon."

Lord Estermont spoke for them. "I don't refute that Lord Gendry looks like Robert, but will he rule as he did, for better or worse? Gendry was a blacksmith, and he has no castle education, no experience ruling. We don't have any evidence that he would be a good ruler for us, for our people."

"Joffery had an education and was taught to be a leader. Was he a good ruler in your opinion, my lord? Aerys Targaryen, Maegor the Cruel, they would have had the best education in Westeros. Were they good kings? Were they good for their Lords and their people? Education means little if you don't know how to use it." Sansa caught a slight grin from Selwyn. "I know Gendry to be a great warrior, a good man with a kind heart and the greatest of friends. You only need to see what I have."

Lord Estermont simply nodded, at Sansa. But Cortnay Penrose was more difficult, he scoffed and shook his head. Suddenly, Gendry slammed the table with his hands and stood up in a rage.

"I'm right here, Penrose. If you got something to say, say it!" Gendry barked.

"I will!" responded Lord Penrose, also standing up to face Gendry across the table. "You are a lowborn pup. The only reason I agreed to you being Lord is because of Daenerys Targaryen. Now she is dead. I have nothing to fear from her or any obligation to her or to you! The Stormlands were perfectly fine without you!"

Sansa furrowed her eyebrows at Cortnay's words, but before she could say anything, Gendry reached across the table, grabbing Penrose's collar and slamming a heavy fist in the Parchment Lord's face. The massive hit cause Penrose to fall to a slump on the ground and Gendry stepped toward him. The commotion brought two soldiers to move forward, drawing their swords at Gendry; their armour bore the sigil of the Parchments. All Sansa had to do was signal with her fingers, and Ser Brienne knew what she wanted. The Lady knight stepped to one side of Gendry and drew her longsword; it's Valyrian blade belittling the Stormland soldiers basic steel. Podrick stood on the other side of Gendry, his sword also drawn.

Addressing Penrose confidently, Sansa rose from her chair, "Lord Penrose, order your men to stand down. Ser Brienne and Podrick have dealt with far worse than them."

"I will not! He assaulted me; look at the blood, he broke my fucking nose!" Penrose responded from the ground, clutching his nose that had unmistakably begun bleeding.

"Maybe it will give some much-needed colour to your beard," Sansa could not resist.

"Break it, huh?" said Gendry with ire. "I'll break more than that. Give me a hammer, and I'll make you sing, Penrose."

"Curse you, both! I will take my armies back to the Stormlands for this!" spouted Penrose with a nasally voice.

"Do that, my lord, and once this is over, I will return to the Stormlands, go to the Parchments, root you out of your castle and remove your head for a traitor," Gendry said calmly, but with a visceral look on his face. 

Cortnay Penrose lifted himself off the ground slowly, still clutching his nose. "You dare call me a traitor boy? You who came from nowhere and hadn't stepped foot in the Stormlands until a month ago! You have no idea what we have suffered from all these wars, yet you presume to rule us! Every choice I make is for the good of our people. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have an army. If it weren't for me, we'd all be burning to a crisp inside King's Landing with the rest."

Sansa looked to Lord Selwyn who nodded slowly, "Lord Penrose pushed to rearm the Stormlands and gather young men to levy in the armies, he brought us together again after we all but collapsed from what happened with Stannis in the North. And when Queen Cersei called our banners to support her in King's Landing against the Dragon Queen, well it was Penrose who refused her first, and from his word we all followed, risking the wrath of Cersei should she win."

"Aye!" spat Penrose "We are tired of war, it almost brought all our houses to ruin, now you want more war!"

Drawing her winter blue eyes to Penrose, Sansa surveyed the Parchments Lord, "Do you think I wanted this, my lord? Do you think you are the only people who suffered all these years? My brother and I were barely able to rebuild the North after so many years of war and betrayal; then we had to face down an army of dead. We barely survived the onslaught, and it decimated our forces, our people. Now we are here in the south fighting again for Westeros and justice. The Starks call for support from the great Stormlands who aided us in the past, without question. Because there will be another battle, this is the Last War, and it won't be over until the Dothraki and the Unsullied are driven from our lands. Don't make the mistake of thinking that if they deal with us, you will be safe, the Dothraki lust for battle and riches; they will breed and they will spread across our country like a plague just as they did in Essos."

Silence filled the golden tent, as they took in her words. Sansa took a step closer to Penrose and continued her speech. "You said you had nothing to fear because the Dragon Queen is dead? My lord, you should fear our wrath; you should fear Gendry Baratheon. He has ties to the Starks through Arya, and me and our brother Jon Snow. And Gendry has the respect of the Northmen for his help in the Great War. We will support him as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the South, even if you don't."

"What, are you gonna march a Northern army all the way down to the Stormlands to aid this one?" Lord Penrose said pointing a bloody finger at Gendry.

"Who said anything about an army? There are ways to deal with people that does not require war."

Selwyn Tarth gave a short, throaty chuckle.

"Then why don't you use one of those ways to deal with the Dothraki?" asked Penrose.

"Maybe I already have been," Sansa said with a small grin. "But I still would ask for your aid, if you support Gendry — if you all support the Starks. We will have an alliance that would rival what my father Ned Stark and Gendry's father Robert Baratheon had when they crushed the Targaryens." 

"Too right," Selwyn said, then stood from his chair. "This has indeed been interesting, but we've talked too much. I will gather my men and head for our army. And I will speak to other lords there, let them know we should follow Lord Gendry and aid Lady Sansa."

"As will I," Aemon Estermont added, also standing. "I'm still quite dubious about you, Lord Gendry. But Lady Sansa has spoken wise words, and we are all much weaker now, an alliance with the North would only benefit us."

Gendry faced turned to them and smiled. "Thanks, my lords. But I have already planned what our army should do. The Warden of the North has informed me of her plans and her wishes for the Stormland army. Once this meeting is over, we will send a fast rider to inform the army to stay west of the Blackwater Rush and move North. We will leave and meet them on the road; then we will cross the river when we can and head east to the Northern encampment. I've gone over this with Ser Davos and Commander Arya, we've determined, if the weather stays as good as this, that it should take just over two days for the army to arrive."

"Already planning," said Selywin with a broad grin.

“How many men and types of armament can we expect?” Sansa asked.

“Near one thousand, heavy spearmen and swordsmen in strong plate. Though they are green and inexperienced and we have no cavalry.” Selwyn answered.

Arya was right, with those types of armament the Stormland army would be invaluable. Sansa was no expert in war or military matters, but even if the Stormlands had no cavalry, she figured, the footsoldiers with their tall, heavy shields and strong plate armour may hold against a Dothraki charge far better than the Northern or Riverland soldiers would. Which must have been why Arya wanted them, though their inexperience would be tested and could be what breaks them, a Dothraki charge, even one outnumbered, would be a fearsome sight. But one thousand was less than Sansa had expected, they would outnumber the Dothraki by quite a lot, more men, however, would never hurt.

Estermont must have seen the look on Sansa’s face. “You were expecting more, my lady,” he said. “We are lucky we have that many, the War of the Five King’s almost made many of our houses extinct. Many of us died with Stannis in his futile war, and we lost all of our horses. As Lord Penrose stated earlier, we’ve spent the last few years making new armour and weapons and gathering men to levy into our armies, but as Lord Selwyn said, they are inexperienced and young.”

“It is more than enough, my lord,” Sansa lied.

"And you, Penrose," Gendry said, turning back to him. "You going to support us or run back to your castle?".

Cortnay Penrose took his hand from his nose, which had finally stopped bleeding, and stared at his blood-soaked palm. "You punch like a girl, Baratheon."

"Then you must be as weak as a bitch, to bleed like that." Gendry challenged.

Bald and red-beared Penrose began a gaudy laugh, and the two other Stormlords joined him. Sansa smiled herself, but she observed that Gendry still stood defensively and was not laughing.

Penrose let his laugh die, before becoming serious again. "All I've done I've done for the best interest of the Stormlanders. I doubted you boy, I still do. But perhaps I am wrong; we will soon find out. Lady Sansa has the balls to insult me, to my face. That's more than I can say for most men. But she speaks true; a battle is coming, better to face it together than on our own. My army will join."

"You will follow my commands?"

"I will."

"Good. And Penrose, if you call me boy, again. I will make the fear my father served, seem like roses from the Reach."

A small smirk came across Lord Penrose's lips. "Noted, my lord."

* * *

 

"You did well," Sansa said to Gendry, as they watched the Stormlords and their men preparing to leave.

"Thought the punch might have been a bit much," he replied. "Got tired of being talked about like I wasn't even there. Lost my temper."

"And then you quickly put in check. Had you continued to wail on Lord Penrose, then that might have been going too far. But you didn't, you stopped."

"I wanted to, though, is that wrong?"

"There are many times where I had thought about doing something to someone when I had the chance. There is a difference between thinking and doing. Keep using your head; be smart. Don't rely too much on fear, it can be intoxicating and makes you feel powerful, but it has dangerous consequences."

"Aye. Thank you. I appreciate all you've done, I really do."

"It was you. I buttered up the Stormlords up with a few words to make them think, but it was your action and confidence that won them over."

"But Penrose said he still doubted me."

"The other lords likely do as well. They always will doubt you, even after many years of proving their doubts unfounded. But you can never doubt yourself, never second guess yourself. Because that is when they will pounce, that is a weakness they will see and take advantage of, then that will be your end. When Jon and I ruled in Winterfell, there were many times we clashed because of our opposing views, and neither of us second-guessed ourselves or gave into to the other or talked about it like adults, like brother and sister. We only did that in private, away from the eyes and ears of the sheep."

"Wouldn't that have made ruling more difficult?"

"Not quite, if anything, it gave us a greater understanding of each other and formed stronger trust between us. And our lords and ladies respected us more as rulers in our own right."

"Huh... well, I guess for the time being I ought to punch people more often."

Sansa chuckled, "Don't get too carried away, I would keep a weather eye on Lord Penrose, however. He says a lot when his anger has risen, though I doubt he follows through on his words. But men like him should never be trusted."

"Aye, my lady, I will."

She placed a caring hand on Gendry's arm and smiled warmly at him. "Have a safe journey, Gendry. Ride well; we will need you here."

Gazing as the Stormlanders rode off, Sansa contemplated on the next objective for the day. It was to become a busy one. She met with some Northern Lords, the Riverland Lords and the Vale Knights and Lords, spoke to them of their men, their numbers, their weaponry, their fitness. She went over the plans for the defences, Arya's trap and the potential for a battle with Unsullied. During all this, in the back of her mind, she wondered where Arya might be, what she might be doing. No doubt she would be practising with her sword or with her bow and arrows as she always did in Winterfell, they say the best warriors trained every day. Sansa continued to muse on this, as Ser Davos repeated for the third time the plans to yet more lords and officers of the armies.

The sun eventually began to set, and Arya still had not returned, but Sansa finally had some reprise from the talks and planning and meetings. While Brienne and Podrick practised with swords, Sansa chose to stroll through the camp with her brother and Samwell Tarly. Her household guard roamed behind them as Sam pushed Bran on his wheeled chair, but the three were suddenly come upon by two short folks, in tattered green leathers. An older man with thin grey hair, bearing a smile. The same man she saw in the command tent when she arrived that wore the Reed sigil pin. Beside him now was a young woman, with wild dark hair. Sansa recognised her immediately, Meera Reed.

"Hello Meera," said Bran with half a smile.

"Hello?" she repeated with a baffled and annoyed look.

"It's good to see you," Bran finished, smiling more.

"It's good—" Meera tried, but something held her back. "I should... I..."

She never explained what she should do, because she ran to Bran and hugged him tightly.

The old grey-haired man stepped up to them and bowed low to Sansa, "My lady, you must be Sansa Stark."

"You must be Howland Reed," she ventured correctly. "You are an elusive man, Lord Reed."

"Way of the Crannogmen," he said with a grin. Then he faced Sam, who offered his hand to the Crannog lord.

“Samwell Tarly,” said Sam with a smile.

“Tarly…” replied Howland in thought, shaking Sam’s hand. “Your brother and father were the ones Queen Daenerys burned on the Goldroad… Being burnt alive is a terrible way to go. I am sorry, son.”

“Yes, well… I… they,” Sam stuttered, trying to find words but also trying to hold back his emotions.

“What brings you south, Samwell?” Howland boomed, clearly seeing the distress in Sam.

And Samwell answered with his desire to help Jon. While he explained this and his relationship to Jon and all they had been through together in great detail, Sansa turned her attention to Meera and Bran. As she came close to them, Meera Reed went quiet.

"Lady Meera," Sansa said.

"Meera is fine," she replied tersely.

"Meera," Sansa replied, ignoring the shorter woman's attitude. "I didn't get to speak to you at Winterfell before you left. I apologise I was rather busy and overwhelmed with Bran's return."

"That's... That's okay."

"I owe you a lot for helping him; he told me about your journey. I'm sorry for the loss of your brother."

Meera said nothing, just nodded sadly.

"Ser Davos also told me that you helped my sister recover from her wound," Sansa continued. "Her and I, or rather our family, owe you a great deal. If there is anything any of us can do, please let us know."

"Actually, there is something maybe you and Bran can do, my lady."

"Name it."

The wild-haired Reed shot her eyes nervously from Bran to Sansa, then took a deep breath. "Jojen, Hodor, Summer, even Osha and Rickon. They all helped Bran get to where he had to go. Summer and Hodor died protecting him. Jojen died believing in him. And Osha and Rickon died keeping his whereabouts a secret. Whatever happens over the next few days or weeks, I want them to be remembered for what they did. Not in stories or songs sung around a camp or inn. I want something written about them, a book telling their stories. The true stories, so everyone knows of their sacrifice. We wouldn't be here without them."

Sansa looked her over and smiled. "I will do all I can to make it so, I promise."

"As will I," said Bran and Sansa looked to her brother in his chair, he stared at Meera, still smiling warmly.

"Not just their stories," continued Bran. "But the stories of all the others who helped in this long journey, from it's beginning to end. When all is done, and the time is right. I will make it so, and I will have it spread across Westeros."

 _When all is done?... When the time is right?... You will make it so?... You will spread it across Westeros?_ Her mind raced, but she had no time to process any of it.

"Lady Sansa!"

She turned startled to see a northern soldier with sweat on his brow; he panted as he spoke. "M'lady... I... at the southern side of camp... one of your riders you sent to King's Landing... has returned."

Sansa narrowed her blue eyes. "One?"

With her household guard trailing her, she followed the Northern soldier to the south side of the camp to a gathered crowd of men, Aberdale stepped in front and began shouting and pushing men aside to create a gap for Sansa. After they moved aside and Sansa stepped into the centre of the crowd, she saw that the Northern soldier had been right, only one of her messengers returned, though not how she would have hoped, for he was dead. Tied naked and bleeding to a horse covered in his blood the man's body was dressed in fresh cuts from his head to his feet. Sansa saw the blood drip from his toes onto the grass beneath him, and then she realised she wasn't the only person in the centre. She was between Lord Royce and Ser Davos; Robin Arryn was there too, he stepped closer to the mounted dead man, gazing at him in shock, or disgust, or anger. Sansa wasn't sure.

"What happened," Sansa asked anyone.

"You see as much as we did, my lady," said Davos. "A single horse just came riding from the city, and this is what came. No message, just this poor dead lad."

"This is a message, from the Dothraki," she replied. "Lord Royce, the horse is a destrier from the Vale. Do you know this man?"

"I did, my lady, barely though. He is — was, Ser Harrold; Ser Morton took him to King's Landing to deliver your message."

"Obviously. Have Ser Harrold taken down, and his body and horse cleaned. Then cover him up; I don't want the entire camp to see this."

"As you say, my lady," Royce obeyed and called men to help him dismount the Knight of the Vale, then Sansa glimpsed Robin Arryn, pacing and repeatedly clenching his fist.

"They killed one of  _my_ men. We should go to that city and kill them all!" Robin wailed.

"That's exactly what they want us to do, my lord," said Davos.

"Who are you?" Robin spat. "Shut up!"

"You will speak to Ser Davos with respect, did you learn nothing of respect in the Vale, Robin," chastised Sansa, glowering at her cousin. "He is right, if we march on the city, we will be defenceless in an open field. A perfect advantage for a Dothraki attack. Or did you want more of your knights to die?."

"I want the Dothraki to die!"

"They will, I promise you."

The next day came and with it two more butchered riders, both of them Northmen. One arrived in the morning, the other in the afternoon. Aberdale said that three Northmen joined Ser Morton and the two other Knights of the Vale. The remaining three that were still in the city, were likely already dead. Again they discussed what they should do, but Sansa, even though she did not want to admit it, said a rescue attempt was pointless. "The Dothraki would have a plan for us, a trap, just like we have for them. We can't fall into it," she reiterated to the lords around her. The rest of the second day was filled yet again, with more meeting and planing and drilling of the armies. In one such meeting, they discussed that the Northern and Riverlands cavalry that would partake in the western flank needed more horses for their men. Sansa offered the horses of her household guard and her own, including Brienne's and Podrick's, as the three of them were to be far away from the battle. Ser Davos reluctantly agreed to it, Sansa's mare was no warhorse, but it was what they had, and they needed her in the cavalry. 

By nightfall Sansa could feel as if the entire encampments were on edge, and it did not help that Arya had still not returned from wherever she went for the past two days. Sansa retired for the night, though just after she stepped into her tent, Ser Roland Waynwood came to speak to her.

"Sorry to disturb you, Lady Sansa," he said.

"No disturbance, Ser Roland," she saw the dour expression that marked his face. "You worry about your father?"

"Yes, my lady. I heard of the messengers that have returned... I... Do you think..."

Sansa placed a hand on his arm, "Your father is one of the strongest men I know, Roland. He would not want you to dwell on his situation."

"I know... I know. It just bothers me that we sit here doing nothing while he could be suffering."

"I promise you; I am doing everything I can."

Roland Waynwood left her shortly after, though Sansa doubted she eased his mind in any way.  _Am I doing all I can?_  She thought while she poured wine into a fine silver goblet. She sat at a small oak table inside her candlelit tent and untied the plaits from her hair, letting it all fall loose, and she gazed at her image in the looking glass resting on the table. Her eyes, shrouded with tiredness, her red hair loose and tangled. Sansa was in a place she thought for a long time that she'd never be in. During her time as but a little girl in King's Landing, she thought she would be someone for Cersei to torment forever. In the Eyrie, she thought her aunt would trap her or that Littlefinger would use her forever. And Ramsay, she would have died in her home before she ever bore his child. But Theon saved her before that could happen, Theon Greyjoy... Theon  _Stark_  Greyjoy.

Sansa pulled the pin that was in between the layers of her black breastplate, the same type of direwolf pin that she placed on Theon's dead body before they burnt it. A tear fell into her hand and onto the iron pin.  _Too many people have died, too many good people._ She placed the pin on the table and picked up a brush and began combing her hair, and she used this time to plan. She would come up with a plan tonight, Morton was unsafe, he rode into the city for her. She had to help him. Brushing her red hair, Sansa thought on the Dothraki about their situation, about how uncertain everything was. And she reminisced about Jon; he was unsafe in that city, no matter what. She did not want Jon to end up like their father, Ned Stark. She would not allow it. 

Candlelight flickered nervously around her in the dark tent as Sansa began plaiting her red hair, one plait on each side. Then after she was happy with it, she put the back of her hair into a bun and let the rest fall over her shoulders. Sansa gazed back at herself in the looking glass. In the past, she had done her hair like the people she admired. Her mother Catelyn Tully Stark, Cersei Lannister, Margaery Tyrell, then her mother again, she still admired Cersei, but she hated her more. This hairstyle was new, something from her own mind. It was more Northern than others, and it was more war-like than lady-like, But it was hers. She was her own person now, she was no longer a little bird or dove, or a naive wallflower for people to look at and use or abuse. She was a wolf and the leader of the North, and she had the respect and allegiance of three other kingdoms. She was a woman, and a battle was coming, and Sansa Stark had a plan, but for her plan to work, she needed her sister.

Sansa felt her nerves rising, so she reached for the goblet of wine, lusting after its calming effect. She picked it up and brought it toward her.

"Good job."

"Fuck!" Sansa yelped, dropping the goblet of wine before it touched her lips. 

Arya had appeared right beside Sansa, out of nowhere and at no one's invitation, shocking Sansa senseless. Her goblet had fallen onto the desk in a great clatter, and the wine exploded from it, some splashing over her, but most poured over the wood. Sansa turned her angry eyes to face Arya, who was wearing a wicked smile. Though before they could speak, Aberdale suddenly burst into her tent with two other Northmen, their swords drawn and ready.

"Lady Sansa!" Aberdale roared. Then he looked on stupified as he noticed Arya.

"It's fine, Captain," said Sansa. "I just spilt my wine."

Aberdale's brown eyes shot from her to Arya, and then he relaxed himself. "Sorry, m'lady. Commander Arya, good tah see yer back, Did nay know you were in here."

"Nor did I," Sansa said, turning a glaring eye to Arya who kept a cheeky grin on her face the whole time. Sansa ordered Aberdale and his men to leave, and she poured herself more wine. 

"Don't bloody do that too me," Sansa said, after taking an actual drink this time. But as she eyed over her sister, there was something about her that had changed, though Sansa could not pin it.

Arya chuckled and pulled out a leather wineskin from under her coat, "How can I resist when you react like that. You screamed  _fuck_ like you just discovered the word. That's the first time I've heard you curse like that."

The popping sound of the wineskin's cap getting removed filled the tent, and Sansa could immediately smell the earthy scent of the ale inside it. "You make it sound like an achievement. Where the hells have you been, and why did you sneak in here? The guards would have let you in."

"It's quicker my way."

Sansa did not hide her eye roll, "And what were you saying,  _good job,_ for anyway? Is it my hair, do you like it?"

"No," Arya replied with a revolted look. "I was talking about you convincing the Stormlords to join us." She leaned against Sansa's table, half sitting on it with one leg dangling freely, and she took a long drink of her ale.

"Oh," said Sansa, "Well, credit goes to Gendry too. I was told what you said to Lord Estermont; you're lucky he is an amenable man; otherwise, things might have gone differently."

" _He's_ lucky I wasn't in a killing mood."

"True, I suppose. Though, I'm not one to talk, if I am honest."

"What do you mean?"

"I insulted Lord Penrose, said I'd seen women with greater moustache's. Called him a puff fish."

Arya choked on the ale she had in her mouth, spitting half of it out and falling into a hysterical giggling fit, holding her stomach as she lurched back on the table. Her giggling laughter was contagious, as it had been when they were children, and it made Sansa smile. In between fits of laughter, Arya looked to Sansa and puffed out her cheeks at her, clearly trying to mimic a puff fish.

"How much ale have you had?" Sansa asked of this rare side of Arya.

"Not enough," she replied after she managed to stop giggling and wipe the tears of laughter from her eyes. Sansa smiled at her again, but it was a sad smile, and she could not laugh with her sister, she could not be joyous on this day.

"What wrong?" asked Arya, composing herself and seeing through Sansa.

"I sent men to their deaths," Sansa saw the quizzical look on her sisters face, and so she explained of the last two days and the riders that returned from the six she sent to King's Landing. She told what happened to them, the conversations she had with Davos, Robin Arryn's reaction, and their belief that the Dothraki want to coerce them to attack. And she reiterated her fear that she sent those six men to their deaths. 

Arya, who's isolation cause her to not do well with people, and even worse with condolences, took a swig of her ale and said. "Didn't think to sound the horn to get me back?"

"I handled it."

"Good, and you had better get used to it. More death will come. Anyway, you couldn't have known what would happen to your messengers."

"Yes, I could have," Sansa said. "You told me what was happening in the city and how the Dothraki were getting wilder. I was too caught up in the planning, but I should have thought of it. I can't afford to be complacent."

"Nobody is perfect; we all make mistakes."

"Oh? And when have you made a mistake recently?"

"Thinking I could take on the Unsullied. I let my concern for Jon make me rush, and it cost the lives of our soldiers, and it almost killed me. There might have been another way to do it, without a battle or death, but I ran into the city with a hasty plan, thinking I could outsmart one the best and well-trained armies in the world. It worked for a while, but the Unsullied adapted to my attack quickly, and we lost far more men then they did."

"The North doesn't see it that way, Arya. History won't see it that way."

"That depends on who writes the history."

Ayra hopped off the edge of the table and began strolling around Sansa's tent, as she did, Sansa finally realised what had been different about her sister.

"Your walking stick, the direwolf cane," she said. "Where is it?"

"In my tent," replied Arya, as if it were obvious.

"Don't you need it anymore? Doesn't it hurt using your leg fully again?"

"It does. But I've spent the last two days training without the cane. I need to get used to using two legs again."

"You really shouldn't fight with that wound, Arya. It's too risky."

"I fought blind with stab wounds through my belly in Braavos. I think I'll be okay Sansa," Arya spun on her feet with feline grace and continued walking around.

"Showoff."

The sisters talked more throughout the night, though, as with most conversation these days, it soon became talks of war, battlefield planning, and to Arya's great displeasure, the politics of Westeros. They eventually came to discuss the Riverlands, and in turn, Edmure Tully. Sansa told Ayra of her meeting with Lord Edmure at the Inn at the Crossroads, how he brought his wife and child, and the words they had. The Stark sisters quickly concluded that although their uncle seemed inept, he had a good heart, and he was still family. Then discussion came back to their current situation, the Dothraki, the Unsullied, their war.

"You truly believe they will attack?" asked Sansa.

"You and Davos are right about them. They are trying to bait us out into the open. If that doesn't work, I feel they will get antsy and attack us," answered Arya.

"But a defended encampment, with hills and forests on either side? The Dothraki aren't stupid; they must expect a trap at least."

"Armies have made worse decisions."

"The Dothraki aren't a regular army, Arya."

"I know that, why do you think I've been making all these defences and planning the pincer moves."

"I just..." Sansa tried to find the words to the inkling feeling she had in the back of her mind. "I can't see the Dothraki just all out charging us. They surely know they're outnumbered."

"If they have a plan, we'll counter it. We'll adapt."

"You might be able to adapt to situations, Arya. But not everyone else can. I'm worried about Jon too."

"Jon? He is the Unsullied's prisoner."

"We don't know for sure that this is all the Dothraki's doing. They could be working with Unsullied to deal with us."

"Tyrion said—"

"I know he told you his thoughts on the Unsullied. Tyrion also thought that Cersei was being honest with him and was coming to aid the North. Once the Dothraki exhaust our messengers the next horse they send could be Jon, it could be Jon's head."

Sansa immediately regretted saying that, as Arya went sullen, her large eyes filled with dread, no doubt thanks to an image of Jon, headless, flashing through her mind. "Do you have a plan then, Sansa, to help Jon? To end this war?"

"There are other ways to deal with people that does not require war. Or at least, little war on our part."

"Meaning?"

Taking a long drink from her wine, Sansa prepared herself. Hoping Arya was on board. She swallowed the liquid, then looked at her little sister. "I've been thinking. You infiltrated King's Landing as an Unsullied when your wound was worse. Could you do it again?"

"Probably, but to what end?" Ayra asked.

"To instigate a war between the Unsullied and Dothraki."

Arya raised one of her thick eyebrows.

"Think about it," Sansa continued. "If we can make them fight each other, we would have far less to deal with. While they are fighting, I can march the armies south and enter the city and deal with the rest."

"And I can free Jon and Tyrion."

"Exactly, maybe even Ser Morton and the others, if they're still alive."

"It would be a tough fight, especially against the Unsullied and the people of King's Landing would get caught in the middle. I don't want another sake and rape of the city."

"It would be a tough fight regardless, but we would have the advantage in this case. I have little love for the people of King's Landing, but they did not deserve their fate, they have already suffered enough. I promise I will order that, should any soldier try to harm or rape one citizen, they will be cut down without hesitation. We will do all we can to protect them."

"That is easier said than done. Though... I could do it, I'd need a half a day at least to get prepared, and I would be more successful at night. But Sansa, how would I instigate a war between Dothraki and Unsullied?"

"Do what you do best. Kill, but this time blame it on the Unsullied."

* * *

 

The Stormland army was due to arrive in the morning, but that came and went without their appearance. Nor did any butchered horsemen come, not until the afternoon. The overcast sky gave them all a gloomy mood as they watched the blood coated horse gallop to them, another naked body tied to its saddle. Arya stepped forward as the horse approached agitated, she removed the satchel from around her chest and dropped it to the ground, the bag that she had been filling throughout the day, preparing for her infiltration at nightfall. As the bay stallion came closer to them, Sansa noticed with shock, the deceased rider's body was missing a head. Arya approached the horse and placed her hand on it, trying to calm its nerves. Then she reached across to a single saddlebag; its bottom was red and dripping with blood. Arya looked back to them, with concern and Sansa nodded. After slowly reaching into the bag, the reaction on Arya's face confirmed Sansa's worst fear, that had been plaguing her for the last few days. From the dripping red, grotesque saddlebag, Arya pulled out the severed head of Ser Morton Waynwood.

"Noooo!" came a cry from a young man. 

Roland Waynwood forced himself through the crowd and snatched his fathers head from Arya. The young knight fell to his knees, and tears immediately fell from his face. Sansa made to console him, but Robin Arryn got there first. The lord placed a hand on his knight's shoulder, his other clenching fist.

"Father..." whimpered Roland through tears.

"I will make them pay!" Robin shouted. "I swear I will have them all killed!"

Sansa saw where this was going, "We have to stick to the pl—"

"Lady Sansa," interrupted Ser Davos with a dour tone.

She looked at him, then followed his eyes to the sight of two more headless horsemen galloping toward the encampment. The horses breathed heavily, and their coats were red with blood. Behind them in the distance of the ruined city, hundreds of other horsemen with curved blades began pilling out of the city. Dothraki Bloodriders. Sansa and Arya looked at each other.

"Looks like there won't be any infiltration. We'll have to destroy the Dothraki ourselves," the Warden of the North said.

"Call the banners to their positions," replied the Lady of Winterfell, to her Warden and all her lords and knights present. "The Dothraki wish to ride to ruin."

* * *

 

The sun was in the west peeking through the grey skies that covered the land, and the late afternoon chill was in the air by the time the Dothraki finished swarming out of the destroyed city. Sansa saw them in the distance; all mounted on their horses as they trotted around the rubble of the brick walls, forming a staggered line. She was amongst a small group standing at the peak of the western hill, overlooking the camp and the Crownlands, the allied cavalry hiding behind the hill waiting for Ayra's order to charge. When the time came, they would join the Knights of the Vale who would charge from the thick trees to the east and the Riverland and Northern footsoldiers who stood in the encampment as bait, and together the three armies would pincer the Dothraki on three sides. It was to be four armies, but the Stormlanders still hadn't arrived.

“Here they come,” she said, standing next to Arya who sat on her gorgeous white palfrey. Brienne and Podrick stood behind Sansa, watching intently. 

“About time,” returned Arya sternly. 

Sansa, Brienne and Podrick had given up their horses to the Northern soldiers, per her suggestion and Sansa had given her horse to a handsome faced soldier who would have been the same age as Bran. As Sansa passed him the reins, the boy soldier flashed a smile and said he was honoured, and that he would bring honour and glory as he rode the mare and that he would return her alive and well. But now, as Sansa stood under ominous grey skies, looking out over the Crownlands and the oncoming Dothraki, deep in the recesses of her mind, she feared she would not see her horse alive again, nor the handsome soldier with his youthful smile.

"Something's not right," Davos said, his eyes darting nervously southward. "The Dothraki that was with our attack on King's Landing was twice the size of that force."

Sansa followed his eyes to the horde that had now begun the over a mile long charge towards the Northern encampment, and the number of riders was considerably smaller than she remembered them being back in the North. "He's right," she said. "I saw them leave Winterfell with Jon, the force charging now is not even half of that."

"Tyrion said there is almost one thousand of them. That isn't a thousand," Arya said.

"Maybe half aren't attacking, maybe... they disagreed on doing it," offered Podrick tentatively.

"Doubt it," Arya replied curtly

"Wouldn't be so hopeful, son," added Edmure, who sat mounted beside Davos. "Where are the rest of them then, if they aren't there?"

"I've got a better question," said Davos. "Now maybe it's my old eyes, but do you see something strange about that horde?"

They all focused their attention on the oncoming horde, though it was Arya's sharp eyes that picked it up first.

"Green," she said.

Then Sansa noticed, the flicker of green flame in the hands of half of the Dothraki charging, some had wooden sticks that flared green, others seemed to have glass bottles filled with it.

"Wildfire!" cursed Davos. "They must have found a cache in the city!"

"They are trying to flank us too..." said Arya dully and pointed south-west.

Sansa followed her sisters pointing hand, and sure enough, a much larger group of Dothraki had formed together on the western side of the destroyed city, though they had not begun their charge yet.

"What are they waiting for?" asked Sansa

"Waiting until we engage the first charge, probably. Split our forces," her sister ventured.

"Splitting their forces doesn't seem like The Dothraki..." said Davos. "But perhaps they are smarter than we gave 'em credit for... and the wildfire... they probably know most of them with the fire will burn... Commander, should we inform the Vale to—"

"No," Arya ordered. "We stick to the plan, regardless of the wildfire. The first charge of Dothraki will hit the pits we dug, as we planned. Then the Vale will hit their flank, as we planned. But we will stay here and gather half of the footsoldiers in the encampment to support us to defend the flank. Davos, you organise the footsoldiers, I will go to the Vale and—"

"Commander!" shouted Brienne suddenly. "That isn't going to work."

Sansa saw the awe in Brienne's sapphire blue eyes, she and all the others followed them to a sight that made her stomach drop.

"What the fuck are they doing!" Arya wailed angrily.

The Dothraki had nearly a half a mile charge before they hit the encampment and the planned flank and trap by Arya. But the Knights of the Vale had begun to charge out of tree line to the east, far too early. Their charge was staggered and rushed, and the Dothraki horde faced them with vigour.

"They're going to be destroyed," Sansa stated, feeling her heart begin to thump more rapidly, deep within her. She could hear the terrifying hollering of the Dothraki as they began to charge the Vale knights.

"The Knights of the Vale are supposed to be a great cavalry force," Edmure blurted, unbelieving of Sansa's words.

"Look at their charge," she replied. "It's not uniform; it's erratic. Many of them look like they don't even know what they are doing. Someone of the Vale ordered that charge hastily, and the rest are catching up."

"Our fuckin' stupid cousin!" Arya exclaimed, her face flushed with rage. "We had a fuckin' plan that would have still worked." The white mare she rode stamped a hooved foot into the ground with anger and snorted the cold air from its nose roughly.

"Arya, we should send the footsoldiers forward now!" Edmure suggested, his horse stepping nervously sideways.

"By the time they reach the battle, it will be too late," Sansa protested. "They need the cavalry to reach them quickly. Arya, you are Warden. It's your choice."

Sansa looked to her little sister, who was thinking with determination, her eyes scanning the battlefield, she bit her lip then her eyes widened as they witnessed a single Dothraki horse ride straight into the centre of the charging Knights of the Vale. The horse was laden with large saddlebag, but because it had no rider the Vale knights ignored the horse as it rode through them, focusing their attack on the Dothraki that split into two and began encircling the Vale. 

_BOOM!_

The horizon shook as a massive green explosion erupted from the centre of the Knights of the Vale, and the screams of men followed. Horses began riding out of the battle burning green, and men wailed in pain as they enveloped in a burn as hot as dragonfire. They desperately tried to remove their melting armour only to be cut down by a Dothraki. Or to be set ablaze further as other bloodriders threw their Wildfire jars at the knights. Sansa looked on in horror at the scene, the Knights of the Vale were going to be destroyed.

"Commander," said Brienne, "I will lead the cavalry down and support the Vale."

"No," said Arya sternly. "You are to protect my sister. I will lead the charge."

"My lady, Podrick will protect Lady Sansa, as will you, to charge into that it is too great a risk for you!"

"I don't—"

"She's right," interrupted Sansa "You are the Warden of the North and my sister. I won't have you recklessly charge into battle like Jon would do."

"Yes, I am the Warden of—"

" _I_ named you Warden. I can unname you if that what it takes to stop you from killing yourself."

Arya grit her teeth. "You wanted me to stay on as Warden, now you threaten to unname me before a battle? You would do that and create chaos and confusion and risk the lives of all these men, just to _protect_  me?"

"Yes."

Arya looked at her, with shock and admiration but before she could speak Sansa drew her attention to her knight "Ser Brienne, take a horse and lead the charge down the hill and hit the Dothraki head-on."

"I will join her," blurted Edmure, and everyone looked at him. "The Northmen might respect Ser Brienne. But there are Riverlanders in that cavalry. I will lead my men."

Arya and Sansa both nodded at their uncle

"Davos," said Arya, seeming to have accepted the new situation. "Ride down to the footsoldiers and bring them all up the hill. Hurry now; I want them in line at the top, so the Dothraki flank are attacking uphill."

Davos galloped down to the encampment at haste, and Brienne mounted a horse. Her and Lord Edmure mustered the cavalry that hid on the other side of the hill, and they charged passed Sansa, Arya and Podrick. The four hundred horsemen made the ground shake as they galloped by, the feeling gave Sansa an uneasy sensation in her gut. She grabbed the needle pendant hanging by her side and held it tight. Moments later the horsemen were within yards of the battle, but Sansa and Arya noticed the more substantial Dothraki flanking horde, to the west, had begun their charge towards the hill. The uneasy feeling inside Sansa increased, and she felt the fear rise into her mind.

_Awhooooooo!_

The brassy resonating sound of a warhorn suddenly came from behind them.

_Awhooooooo!_

They turned to its origin, and the sight of long, dangerous spears filled the cold air, the orange glow of the sunset reflected off the sharp steel tips. Then the banners appeared, the material dancing in the breeze showed a powerful black stag, salient on a gold field.

"Stormlanders," Arya whispered with a small smile on her face.

Below the spears and banners came, swordsmen, spearmen and archers running towards them at the precipice of the hill. They all wore heavy plated armour, and the two lines of spearmen at the front had large tower shields that nearly spanned the length of their bodies. Leading them, wielding a war hammer as if it was a stick, was a man wearing a golden, silk tabard with a black stag embroidered in the middle, which layered over thick and shining steel plate that covered him from head to toe. His heavy great-helm masked his entire face and adorned on its top was the antlers of a stag that rose above his head, creating an intimidating look. The golden stag warrior stood before Sansa and Arya, he slammed the war hammer on the ground and removed his helm. The black-haired and blue-eyed Gendry Baratheon smiled at them.

"The Stormlands will stand with you, my ladies," he said

"Thank you, Gendry," Arya replied quickly and gave him a warm smile.

Then the Northern and Riverlander footsoldiers began the appear up the hill, they all ran lead by Davos and the other Northern Lords, Manderly, Cerwyn, Reed, Tallhart. The two armies stood side by side, the black stag banners of House Baratheon flew beside the grey direwolf banners of House Stark. In the midst of all the spear points and wooden shafts, between the large Stark, Baratheon and Tully banners, were smaller banners of their lords, an array of colours of the varying houses of the combined kingdoms jostling in the wind. The sight made Sansa glow and gave her strength, but as she cast her eyes across the soldiers in front of her, she did not see the same strength in the men. They were exhausted, and she saw the fear in their eyes at the sight of the Dothraki. Even though they outnumbered their enemy, many would fall to the fearsome Dothraki charge. 

Arya suddenly leapt from her mare and handed the reins to Sansa. "Take my horse," she said "and go with Podrick to the camp. Stay with the Northmen protecting Bran and Samwell Tarly. I'll find you when it's over."

The white palfrey, accepted her as Sansa lept into its saddle immediately, but she made no motion to retreat to the camp. She turned to face the oncoming Dothraki; they were galloping towards them steadily, but not intending to push their horses until they got closer to their enemy. She turned back to the soldiers and saw them breathing heavily, the Stormlanders, Riverlanders and Northmen were all drained from their heavy slog up the hill, and they did not look inspired to face the impending wrath. Though the Northmen were exhausted, they seemed resolute. They were the survivors of the Great War; they had faced death and lived. But the Stormlanders, the Riverlands, they were nothing but farmhands, villagers. Many of whom likely had never held a weapon before today — many who feared death and frett over it from the moment they were levied into their armies.

"What are you doing?" Arya asked inscrutably.

"I need to speak to the men," said Sansa

"You need to get back to the camp."

"You will not send me to hide as you did back in Winterfell. I can do something here, and I will not abandon my people."

Sansa rode off down the long line of men that stretched across the hill; she looked across at the combined forces of three kingdoms. Thousands of men to face down hundreds of Dothraki, though the dread and uncertainty were palpable on the hill. She saw the faces of her Northern lords, the Riverlords and the Stormlords. She gave a particular glare to Lord Penrose, who wore heavy plate embossed with his house sigil.

"Men of the Stormlands! Men of the Riverlands! Men of the North!

She shouted as she rode along the line, and she felt the eyes of the soldiers beginning to look up to her.

"Many of you do not know me. I am Sansa, of House Stark. I have come south with my sister to free our brother and to end these wars that have destroyed our country and killed the people we love! But the Dothraki do not want this, they crave war, and they crave to avenge the death of their tyrant queen who murdered hundreds of thousands of innocents in that crumbled city before you! The Dothraki have come, to destroy us, to kill you. To ruin our land, pillage our homes, rape your women and enslave your children!" she saw the ambivalence in the eyes of the soldiers, the reservation and the fear. Fear was contagious as much as it was intoxicating, and it needed to be rooted out like a disease.

"This will not happen!" Sansa continued riding back across the line, shouting as loud as she could. "The Dothraki believe you to be farmhands, stableboys, smiths, servants, inexperienced scared boys that they will cut down with ease. But not me! I see fearless warriors. I see men, proud and strong. I see heroes whose names will go down in history and song! For as long as men breath they shall know that on this day, the Stormlands, the Riverlands and the North fought together again!"

Gendry was the first to cheer in agreement, following him immediately was the Northmen. The Stormland and Riverland lords and soldiers all started to take up the cheer that contagiously spread across the men.

Sansa rode back down the line, passing Arya who had a small smile on her lips. The Lady Paramount of the North raised her hand for quiet, and a silence fell on the hill. "Those barbarians shall not pass this hill!" continued Sansa. "They will not destroy our country, and they will not murder us or the people we love and protect! They will not ride to their vengeance and victory. They shall ride to ruin, and their bloody end! They shall fall on our swords and our spears and our axes! We shall break their bones into the dirt. Their stallions will shatter and collapse under the weight of our strength! They will flee from our fearless onslaught! They will cry out for mercy, and there will! Be! None! For ours is the fury! From the Shadow Lands to Casterly Rock, from the Lands of Always Winter to the Summer Isles, the whole world shall know what happens when foreigners try to take our homes! They all shall remember that this was the day that we drove the Dothraki back into the sea!"

This time the conjoined booming of cheers from the Northmen, the Stormlanders and the Riverlands resounded across the hill as they roared in unison lifting their weapons in the air or clanging them against their shields which created a deafening thunder. And Sansa saw, in the eyes of the men, determination and strength. 

She rode and stopped between Arya and Podrick, "NO MERCY!" she shouted.

"NO MERCY!" Gendry repeated, and he put his antler adorned great-helm back on. "Forward!"

"Forward march!" Arya screamed.

The soldiers advanced passed them to the very edge of the hill before it began to curve downward, by the time they had taken their positions, Arya, Sansa and Podrick were at the back of the thick lines of men that spread across the hillside. As the army halted, the sound of hollering echoed towards them.

Her heart pounded as Sansa witnessed the Dothraki charge towards them, her face dropped, and her breathing began to falter at the sight of the massive horses of the horde trembling the ground beneath them. Their powerful muscles were glistening with sweat, their nostrils snorting the cold air with each hammered gallop and the men that rode them hollered fearlessly, waving their curved blades above them, the steel glinting in the western sunset. Sansa had given the army inspiration, but it had not imbued her. Then to her shock, She began to realise that she was the only one mounted in the whole army, and she fearfully contemplated the consequences of that. Positioned high above the others, with her red hair and regal dress and black breastplate, she knew that she would be a target. Her hand trembled as she held the reins of the mare, and her heart quickened inside her.

 _No. I have Arya and Podrick by my side, and I have thousands of men between the Dothraki and me._ She tried to rationalise her situation, but her breathing still shook uneasily.

"Sansa," came Arya's voice, and she looked down at her sister. She was staring straight forward, prepared for the coming battle.

"Leave here. Now," said Ayra.

"No! How do you think it would look if I ride off just before the enemy hits us," She stared at Arya's face, which made no change. But Sansa could tell her stubbornness frustrated Arya, who suddenly unsheathed her shortsword, flipped in her hand, and delivered it hilt forward to Sansa.

"Then take Needle, just in case," she said.

"Jon gave you this," Sansa replied cautiously.

"Don't break it and don't lose it. Stay at the back with Podrick and me. If the Dothraki break through our lines and we start getting attacked, you ride back to camp," Arya shot her head to Sansa, her eyes glaring with seriousness. "Promise me you'll retreat."

"I promise," said Sansa sincerely, then leaned over and with an apprehensive hand, took Needle from her sister. But Arya noticed what Sansa tried to hide.

"Your hands are trembling," the young, dark-haired Stark said.

Sansa swallowed drily but made no response.

"Don't let it consume you," Arya continued. "Fear cuts deeper than swords."

Sansa gazed at her sister with admiration as she picked up a spear and began shouting orders.

"SHIELD WALL!" Arya shrieked her command.

The men grunted in acknowledgement, and the Stormland soldiers at the front slammed their heavy tower shields into the ground, and the soldiers behind them lowered their spears forward, between the gaps of the shields and toward the enemy that came nearer with every breath. Even upon Arya's white mare, Sansa could feel the ground begin to tremble as the horde charged nearer.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords_.

"Archers!" Arya bellowed. "Draw! Knock!"

Arya raised her spear, then cast it downwards, "LOOSE!"

The snapping of bowstrings filled the hill, and the whirr of hundreds of arrows in flight consumed Sansa's senses. Though even as they fell from arrow fire, the Dothraki still beset the hill, Arya gave further commands to loose arrows, but the Dothraki did not falter and came ever nearer in their ascent. The horse lords were mere yards away from the Westerosi shield-wall, and the hill trembled on their approach. Sansa felt the sweat in her palm coat the leather-wrapped hilt of Needle, she rolled it around in her hand and tried to breathe slowly.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_  she repeated to herself.  _I did not fear the Dragon Queen. I will not fear this. If I can face the undead, I can face the Dothraki. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

The ever tenacious and fearsome hollering and whooping of the Dothraki echoed across the land as they prepared themselves to strike their enemy, but, as if in pure challenge of their war cry, Arya began to scream wildly. Her howling lungs pierced the air on Sansa's side, and she turned to her wailing younger sister. Arya's narrow face bled with furious defiance, and her knuckles went white as she gripped tightly onto the wooden shaft of her spear. Gendry took up Arya's war cry, from the front of the army, and his antler ornamented great-helm made his roaring a resounding boom across the hill and like a spilled pitch set ablaze, the voices thousands of men spread following Gendry and Arya's war cry, and the hill ignited in a cadence of defiance. The screams and roars of thousands of Westerosi drowned out the hollering of the foreign Dothraki. Suddenly, Sansa's world became a battlefield.

Dothraki smashed into the shield-wall, and the shrieks of horses echoed as their riders forced them into the spears of the Stormlanders. The clanger of steel and iron rang in Sansa's ears, the twang of bows and the cries of men dying brought an eerie coldness to her body, and she quickly noticed, that even though they greatly outnumbered the Dothraki, the horselords were starting to break through their lines. On Sansa's left, Arya was wailing shrilly, throwing her spear at a mounted Dothraki, it hit his bare chest, and the bronze-skinned man collapsed from his horse. The wild wolf picked up another spear from the ground as an unmounted Dothraki came marching towards her and Sansa, the Dothraki had focused their main attack on the centre of the wall and broken through, and there was not just the one coming from her left but several more charging toward her right and centre. _They are targeting me; they know I'm Jon's sister. They know I defied their queen._ She gripped Needle tighter and motioned the white mare back, and the horse obeyed. 

_Retreat._

In the tumultuous sound of battle around her, as Sansa attempted to canter the white mare to flee, she heard the shrill cry of her name. Sansa turned panicked to its source, but instead of an ally, she saw a mounted Dothraki charging at her. He swung his curved blade as he came within her range, she winced back and held Needle up instinctively, it clashed with the curved steel, but Sansa's sweaty trembling hand and inexperienced grip caused Needle to fly from her grasps. Her assailant stopped right beside her, and he laughed hideously, and in his eyes, she saw hatred and lust. Suddenly he swung his blade at her chest, and Sansa pulled back, lifting her hands with terror, and she sensed the large half-moon curve of the Dothraki blade wrap around her breastplate. She felt a bruising impact on her ribs and a sudden cold sting below her breast. Her attacker had an angry and annoyed look on his face as she looked to him despairingly, Sansa quickly discerned that his blade had become stuck in her breastplate and the Dothraki had tried to force it free. Seizing an opportunity, Sansa clenched a shaking fist and swung it carelessly at his face, but he caught her arm easily, and with a terrifying force, he pulled on his wedged blade. It freed violently, bringing Sansa a sharp pain in her ribcage and she lurched forward from the pull of the Dothraki. The snow-white speckled grass came to her quickly as she fell from the white mare.

* * *

 

Winter blue eyes opened slow and achingly, Sansa saw blood, snow, strands of her now unkempt red hair, and trampled mud beneath her. She lay on her stomach, winded from the fall coupled with a searing pain in her left rib cage, then the deafening noise of battle resounded back into her now throbbing head. Her senses filled with the sounds of weapons clashing, or men crying out in a fury or their death throes. Shrieks of horses dying helplessly, vibrations of war all around her and the smell of blood, sweat and men's urine and defecation as their bowels escaped their bodies when death met them. Sansa rolled slowly onto her back, her dazed eyes saw the sight of a grey sky and a mounted Dothraki above her, smiling with revolting intent. His stallion reared itself on its hind legs, and Sansa could see every strong pulsation of its muscles flashing as the horses front legs came down to crush her. But before its hooves met her, a spear thrust into the horse's neck and the stallion faulted, collapsing sideways. 

As if out of nowhere, Sansa's blurred eyes saw the sight of a small woman leaping through the air, her blood-covered brown doublet and tassets were shinning as she sprang onto the Dothraki above Sansa. The wild-haired woman held a sharp dagger that she repeatedly thrust into the foreign rider, fiercely howling all the while. Then as the woman and the Dothraki fell from the horse, she used his body to shield her fall and then disappeared into the crowd of war and chaos of men fighting for their lives. Sansa lifted a hand the sharp sting she felt in her ribs, a slick and wet feeling met her fingertips as she ran her hand across her breastplate. Groaning with pain, she rolled her head to the side, the orange-gold of the sunset, shaped silhouettes of plaited-haired men with curved blades fighting wildly. More men in steel with spears, axes and swords stood against them. Strangely, Sansa saw antlers amongst the silhouettes, one of them had broken in half, but they appeared to move around deftly amongst the battle, then she saw the animal the antlers belonged to. It's stood on two legs, covered in shining steel that glistened with blood, a tabard dirty with entrails of those he killed, bristled through the air as the stag headed warrior wielded a heavy steel war hammer like it was a hollow piece of wood. He smashed the hammer into the chest of a Dothraki and sent the man crumbling to the ground; the stag warrior cried a thunderous roar from behind his great-helm when he brought his silhouetted war hammer down into the Dothraki's skull. Next to him fought the same wild-haired woman from earlier, her narrow face full of a fury Sansa had seen before, her wolfish features bared as she twirled a spear around her. A curved blade whirled toward her, and she pirouetted away from the attack with graceful intent, and near impossible speed. She swivelled the spear in her hands and smashed the butt of it across her attacker's face then drove the steel tip of the spear into his bare chest. More enemies came toward her, and she spun back, every movement she made was fast, deliberate and with purpose.

"M'lady!"

Heavy hands clasped her shoulder, and Sansa looked to the man they belonged to, a Northmen with a dry, shrivelled but friendly face gazed upon her.

"Lady Sansa, I've come to get you out of here!" he said.

"Hallis?" said Sansa with a barren, hoarse voice.

"Aye! Glad you remember me, m'lady. But you have to get out of here! Get up!"

The veteran soldier who fought for her brother Robb, the man who knew his Tully banners and had scouted for Sansa, took her arms and hauled Sansa to her feet. Sansa's whole chest ached with pain and the battlefield blurred as dizziness took her. She placed her hands on Hallis to steady her weary body.

"Come Lady Sansa; you have to flee!"

"No... her sword... I need to find my sisters sword," she breathlessly replied.

Hallis pulled on her arm, urging her to move. "M'lady, it's gone! There is nothing you can do here! You are bleeding, we have—"

Hallis' head fell from his shoulders. The blood coated steel blade missed Sansa's face by inches as it cut through Hallis' neck, his blood gushed over her, and she fell back onto the ground, screaming horrifically. The head of Hallis fell onto her stomach; his face stuck in perpetual shock. Sansa threw it off, and she looked on terrified as his head rolled away, his blood splatter on her face, chest and hands. Then the Dothraki came upon her; he walked hastily, his curved blade covered with Hallis' blood gleamed an ominous red. Clasping desperately at the ground, Sansa pushed herself back as her assailant came toward her, fierce anger and hunger in his eyes. As she crawled backward on the ground, she grasped for something to defend herself with, but her hands only found the cold grass or the bodies of the dead. The hungry barbarian stood before her and lifted his blade to strike; then it came down as if in slow motion. Suddenly, a glimmer of metal flashed above her, and the sound of steel rang inches from her face. The orange-gold of the setting sun gleamed off the castle forged steel of the Northern sword that had come between her and her attacker's weapon. It parried the curved blade and pushed it back, and Sansa saw her saviour, he was a young man in a maroon doublet, wielding the longsword in two hands, but he was not a Northerner. Sansa's panicked mind realised who it was.

_Podrick?_

Podrick Payne stepped in front of Sansa and swung his sword wildly at the Dothraki. The two clashed, but the taller and stronger Dothraki was the more experienced fighter, he parried one of Podrick's erratic swings, and the squire's sword flew from his grasp. He ducked frantically from a swing of the Dothraki's curved blade then, without thinking, he ran at the Dothraki and tackled him to the ground. The two enemies rolled around in front of Sansa desperately fighting, throwing fist into each other's bodies. Sansa looked around nervously, begging her eyes to find something, but she only saw death and war and blood. Until the sight of a thin blade met her, it lay in the mud next to the corpse of a Stormland soldier. The bronze gilded, and leather-wrapped hilt stood out, but its pommel, styled with a weirwood face, seemed to stare consciously at Sansa. 

 _Needle_.

She crawled to Needle dodging the battle going on around and finally grasped the hilt in her hands. The blade felt familiar, and she felt stronger holding it. She looked back to the battlefield and at Podrick's struggle. The Dothraki had overpowered him and kneeled over the squire, smashing a clenched fist into Podrick's face, with each impact Sansa saw Podrick's resistance falter. Holding her stinging pained chest in one hand and Needle in the other Sansa rose to her feet and stumbled towards Podrick. A liquid oozed down her stomach, and her body trembled with fear, but she persevered. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ She marched across the trampled battlefield, around bodies and blood and entrails and material she did not know. Sansa ignored the war around her, focusing on her goal. She heard the sound of swords clashing near her, men screaming words in Common or Dothraki, some screams were blood curdling making words come out unintelligible all together. Her weak legs carried her until she stood before Podrick and the Dothraki kneeling above him. Sansa held Needle in both hands and lifted it vertically and high. She screamed as loudly and wildly as Arya had done and brought it down into the nape of the Dothraki. The sharp tip of the sword pierced his skin easily, and blood spurted out from his mouth, covering Podrick. Sansa pulled out the thin blade now slick with blood, and she pushed the heavy Dothraki off of Podrick. The young squire's face was battered and covered in red. Taking her offered hand Sansa help him on his feet, and the squire picked up a fallen sword and stood in front of Sansa. Despite, his wounds and the beating he received, Podrick stood tall and ready for another fight. And it came to him.

"Get back, my lady!" he screamed and forced Sansa away as another Dothraki came towards them.

However, instead of swinging wildly, Podrick opted to use patience and timed his attacks and parries. Podrick ran the Dothraki further away from Sansa, and as she watched him fight, she could feel the presence of men swarming around her, though it was not Dothraki, but Northmen and Stormlanders. Suddenly, Aberdale stepped beside her.

"M'lady, yer bleeding," he said.

"It's nothing," then she noticed a large cut on Aberdale's shoulder blade, she touched it with care.

"I'm fine, m'lady," said Aberdale flinching.

Gendry appeared next to Sansa as well, his armour beaten in and covered in redness.

"Gendry," said Sansa, "where is my sister?"

"Don't know," he replied from behind his great-helm. He took it off and dropped it to the ground, then looked at Sansa. "Battle's almost over; you ought to get the cut looked at."

"Later."

Lord Baratheon had been right; the sound of battle began to die down, and Sansa witnessed Podrick deftly parry his opponents strike. Then he swung his blade across the Dothraki's chest, cutting him open, then brought his longsword down upon his breasts. Podrick's enemy collapsed backwards as life left him. Sansa started witnessing the last of the Dothraki mounting back on their horses or running on foot away from the battle.

She clutched her pained rib cage again and shouted, "They're fleeing! Don't let them, no mercy!"

"NO MERCY!" repeated a woman's cry, and Sansa saw Arya in amongst the men. Her wild-haired little sister shouted orders to the soldiers around her, and they began following the Dothraki or loosing their arrows.

"KILL THEM ALL!" Arya screamed, and thew her spear, it pierced a mounted Dothraki, and he slumped off his horse.

* * *

 

The remaining Dothraki did not last long in their attempts to flee, they fell from arrows or spear or were simply caught before they could getaway. Sansa soon understood that they had not thrown the Dothraki back into the sea, but that they had made them extinct. Podrick came walking back, breathing heavily and wiping the blood from his face.

"You fought well, Pod," Gendry said, clapping him on the arm.

"Thank you, my lord," replied Podrick. "My lady, are you okay?"

Sansa only nodded weakly.

"You saved my life, my lady."

She kept her lips thin and made no response, only gripped her rib cage over her armoured breastplate.

"I seen that," said Aberdale.

"I saw it as well," added Gendry.

Sansa watched as Arya walked towards them, stepping over and around the dead on the ground. Her hair damp with blood and sweat, her armour red with her enemies entrails. Without saying a word, Arya approached her, removed Sansa's hand that covered her ribs and took a look at the cut below and to the side of her left breast.

"You're lucky; it's not deep. The layers of your breastplate took most of the impact, and the pressure of the tight armour stopped most of the blood. But we need to burn the rot away," Arya ordered for a fire, and a stick and the two quickly appeared. In front of everyone, Sansa prepared herself as Arya held the flaming stick close to her cut.

"Are you ready?" asked Arya.

"Just do it."

The sudden searing burn inflicted such pain on Sansa that even though she tried her best not to scream, she could not help it, she wasn't as resilient to pain as her sister was. Her voice shuddered, and she cried a howl like she never had before, and it helped. After it the deed, she breathed slowly, trying her best to think about anything else than the searing burn that went through her entire body.

Arya dropped the burning stick and stepped on it to douse the flame. "We need to move. We need to go down to where the Knights of the Vale are and assess what we've lost and prepare the men for another attack."

"Another attack?" asked Gendry perplexed. "All the Dothraki are dead, Arya."

Sansa put a hand on Gendry's armoured shoulder, "Not from the Dothraki, from the Unsullied. We lost many, and our men are exhausted. If they were to attack us now, the battle wouldn't go in our favour. My sister is right. We need to move and prepare as best we can while we have the time."

They all agreed quickly, and the two sisters led the armies down the hill toward the battle of cavalry that happened in front of the encampment. Clutching her stinging rib cage and walking as lightly as she could to lessen the throbbing pain in her head, Sansa gripped Needle and offered her sister back her sword, Arya took it and cleaned the blade on her sleeve.

"I told you before the battle to get back to camp," she said, sliding Needle into its scabbard. "You risked your own life and many others. You promised me you would retreat if we got overwhelmed."

"I tried to, but I got attacked," said Sansa.

"Exactly, you shouldn't have been there. You almost died."

"I survived," Sansa dismissed.

"And you were scared for your life. I saw it on your face. The Dothraki were targeting you. Podrick wasn't the only one there; many men died protecting you."

"If I could knight them all, I would. If I can pay them all back in some way, I will."

"Knighthood and reward mean nothing to the dead."

"It means something to the living," Sansa brushed the loose red hair from her eyes as they began to walk through the dank lands of war, sparsely lit aflame by green wildfire.

They walked amongst the corpses of Dothraki, Valemen, Northmen and Riverlanders, and the putrid smell swelling in the air. Horses lay on top of men who moaned in their death throes, blood and piss and shit layered the flat grasslands with the sound of horses shrieking in agony, the further they walked, the more Knights of the Vale Sansa saw. Silent Sisters from the Vale and Riverlands walked with healers from the North, helping the wounded. One healer was severing the leg of a Riverland soldier, whose bone had broken through the skin of his ankle. Sansa looked away, but there was no escape from the smell and sight of death and suffering. The smell of burnt flesh, the sight of men or animals still burning a grotesque green, the lands around them burning on relentlessly, refusing to die as soldiers attempted to douse the wildfire.

"Sansa," came Arya's voice, dull and full of dread. "This was your horse, no?"

She stepped beside Arya and looked down at a massacred horse. It's stomach cut deeply, and it's body trampled. Blood covered so much of the horse that Sansa could barely see its chestnut coat, but she knew it was her mare, for the young, handsome faced soldier she had given it to, was lying, crushed underneath the horse, his face red with blood and lifeless. Sansa felt Arya's hand wrap around her wrist.

"We should move on Sansa, there is enough death to look at," said Arya.

"Too much," Sansa replied. She felt like she should say something, to the horse, to the young dead soldier, to everyone who fought and died. But she knew there was no point. 

_My words won't mean anything here. The dead won't hear them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew.... the next few chapters will be shorter ones.
> 
> I considered making this someone else's POV but I wanted to explore the lead up and a battle through Sansa's eyes because of her outlook on things and because she isn't a warrior.


	17. Podrick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the battle with the Dothraki shows the casualties of this war and the mistakes people made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. Or those who are still reading. I have to apologise for the massive gap of time between chapters. I had some personal stuff happen and then I lost my urge to write. I hope this chapter makes up for it and I hope you enjoy it.  
> It is much shorter than the other chapters. I am still trying to get back into the groove of writing.  
> As always, thank you for the support :)

Lady Stark stood motionless over the dead horse and rider, staring dully at the corpses. The Warden of the North stood beside the Lady of Winterfell, then grabbed her wrist.

"We should move on Sansa, there is enough death to look at," said Commander Arya.

"Too much," replied Lady Sansa and together the sisters moved on.

As Podrick ambled behind the lady and the warrior, he gazed at the dead horse Lady Sansa had been standing by, he recognised the young, dead Northern soldier laying underneath it as the one Sansa had given her horse to. Podrick recalled the words the young soldier said to Lady Sansa when she handed him the reigns.

"Thank you for your horse, Lady Stark," said the boy, flashing a smile. "I shall bring honour and glory to House Stark as I ride into battle!"

"Ride well,” replied Sansa.

"I will, m'lady. And I promise to return your mare to you, battle-worn, but alive."

 _People ought to stop making promises_. Podrick sighed and moved on.

Lady Stark moved tentatively through the trampled ground, stepping over and around the corpses of Westerosi and Dothraki alike. The field was wet with blood and mud, piss and shit and entrails of the dead. Parts of the battlefield were still green with wildfire that men were trying to put out. Green fires they had extinguished left in its wake horrendously burnt corpses of horse and man, carrying a decaying, putrid smell. Charred specks of land blackened the ground, including its grass and plant life alike. The gloomy grey sky and orange glow of the quickening sunset offered no reprise from the dismal sight and smell of war, death and suffering. A Knight of the Vale was screaming horrendously, cursing and flailing about as he tried unsuccessfully to remove his helm, half of which had melted onto his head. Other knights and Northern soldiers were beside him, trying to help calm the pain-stricken man to no avail. Lady Sansa approached the knight and at the sound of her voice, and the touch of her hand on the knight's arms, he began to calm. Podrick could not make out the spoken words between Lady Sansa and the knight with the burnt helm, but whatever it was made the knight sit on the ground and allow those around him attempt to remove the melted helm from his head. Podrick came to and assisted, helping to pry the steel from the flesh. Their efforts met with dreadful, painfilled screams. Curses and shaking fits of pain nobody could dare imagine. All the while, Arya Stark stood over them, watching with a sadness in her deep eyes. Sansa Stark knelt beside the knight and held his hand. Each cry of pain from the knight made him squeeze Lady Sansa’s hand incredibly tight, and Podrick could see how red and marked Sansa’s hand was becoming. But she made no complaints. In the end, they removed the helm and the scent of burnt flesh flowered around them. The knight lay, moaning and humming quietly, his grip around Sansa’s hand had fallen to the ground. Over half his face was melted and burned, his right eye melted shut, the hair on his scalp all but gone. Silent Sisters came to them, to aid the knight and ease his pain and the Stark sisters slowly moved on, and Podrick followed. The moans of agony from the knight lingered behind them.

Podrick followed close behind, the sisters as they moved forward, Sansa held her rib cage as she walked, no doubt trying to temper the pain from the cut she received, though she still stood tall and walked as gracefully as she could. Lady Stark did not let her wound, her unkempt red hair, or splatter of blood that coated her dress, breastplate and face wear her down. Podrick admired her for that, resilient till the end. Commander Arya, though not cut or visibly bruised from the battle, was covered in even more blood and mud. Her hair was dirty and had come loose, causing it to fall over her shoulders and down her face, though she did not attempt to clear it from her eyes. She walked through the battlefield less gracefully than her sister, though as agile as a cat.

As they continued, Sansa and Arya spotted Lord Edmure, Ser Davos and Lord Royce kneeling over a Knight of the Vale, a Silent Sister kneeling opposite them and standing by them was Ser Brienne, her right arm, red with blood. Arya and Sansa proceeded toward them, and they saw laying on the ground, gritting in agony, Roland Waynwood. "Ser Roland?" said Sansa standing before him.

"Ahh, Lady Sansa! Glad to see you survived," he replied, attempting a small smile.

"What has happened? I see no blood or cuts on you.” Sansa asked.

"No, my lady, it's my legs. My horse fell on top of me. Then I got trampled by one of those Dothraki whore-sons. Forgive my words, my lady. But I can't move my legs. I fear… I fear that I have lost the ability to use them…"

Sansa looked to Royce and Edmure with concern in her eyes. "Will he walk again?"

"Don't think so, my lady," said Royce solemnly.

"Don't care about walking," Roland coughed. "But I won't be able to ride. I loved riding the most. I was going to make fathers memory proud by being a great knight. But what is a knight who can't ride."

"Who says you can't ride?" Sansa said defiantly

"Lady Sansa, my legs—"

"A very smart man that I consider a friend, once designed a saddle for my our brother Bran, after he lost the ability to walk. This saddle allowed him to ride a horse as good as before. Once this is over, I will get a saddle designed to suit you, and you shall ride again."

Roland Waynwood’s eyes widened, and he mouthed soundless words. Though before more could be said, two Northmen were heard coming towards the group, each one cursing and hitting a Dothraki they had between them. “Got ourselves one of these crazy fuckers,” one of the Northern soldiers said when they came closer, and he threw the Dothraki into the ground and kicked in his ribs. “You did this, you fuck. Eh?”

They left the Silent Sister to mend Roland. Podrick, Edmure, Sansa, Arya and Royce stood before the captured Dothraki. “They are even uglier up close, “ Edmure said.

“Any more alive?” Asked Davos. The two Northern soldiers shook their heads, and one of them pulled the Dothraki by his braid, so he sat upright. The Dothraki cast his bloodied eyes across those in front of him. When he found Sansa, he spoke a rabid array of words in Dothraki before finishing with two words in the Common Tongue. “Red bitch.” Then he spat at her. His specked blood saliva splotched on Sansa’s dress. In an immediate response, like a viper, Arya backhanded the Dothraki and then kicked in his stomach. He lurched forward, coughing in agony.

“You are Bhano,” Sansa said. “Your queen named you as leader of the Dothraki. You were in our war meeting at Winterfell, regarding the attack on King’s Landing.”

“Yes,” The captured, beaten and bleeding Dothraki named Bhano replied.

“You are the last of the Dothraki.”

“Yes.”

“Get some water. Dying must bring him thirst.” Sansa ordered one of the Northern soldiers. He quickly returned with a leatherskin full of water and handed it to Lady Sansa. Podrick watched as she uncapped the skin and passed it to Bhano and he glugged it. Gulping down the water like it was the sweetest thing. As soon as Bhano finished his drink, Sansa nodded subtly to Arya.

Bhano lay before the group. His throat slit open cleanly and his body motionless. Arya Stark wiped the blood from her Valyrian dagger and sheathed it. The Dothraki were now extinct.

“Lord Royce,” Arya said, as soon as her dagger met its sheath. “Tell me now, who was it that disobeyed my order and rode to meet the Dothraki?” Bronze Yon Royce stammered and stuttered, but Arya, showing apparent contempt stepped in front of him. “Tell me. Now.”

“It was… Lord Arryn, Commander.” Royce answered. And as soon as the last word was said, Arya quickly walked by them all and started to approach a group of Knights of the Vale. Sansa followed her sister, and so did the rest. In the middle of the Vale knights, was Robin Arryn, prodding a sword into a dead Dothraki. The knights shifted and split, allowing Arya and Sansa through. Lord Robin saw them approached, and a wide grin found his face.

“We won!” he said with a cheer at the sisters.

Arya’s response was a massive kick to Robin Arryn’s chest. She hit him with such force he careened back and fell to the ground, his sword fell from his weak hands. Arya drew her dagger, knelt over Robin and held her blade against his throat. Podrick looked to Sansa who stood by watching unemotionally, and no Knight of the Vale attempted to intervene with what was happening to their lord.

“You agreed to follow my commands. And you disobeyed them. WHY!?” Arya demanded through gritted teeth. Podrick looked on, seeing Robin Arryn lay in the mud, stammering wordlessly. With the Warden of the North on top of him. Her knee in his ribs, her blade against his throat.

Robin looked beyond Arya to Sansa, “San--”

Arya grabbed him by his cheek and made him face her. “Don’t look to Sansa for rescue. She isn’t going to save you.” She forced the blade deeper into Robin’s throat, and a trickle of blood seeped down his gullet “Look around you! These men sworn to you lost their brothers, the fathers. Their friends! Because of what? Because you knew better? Because you wanted to play at war!? Like some stupid hero!?”

Robin made no comment, only whimpered. And still, no one present tried to stop what was happening. Finally, Arya lifted herself off of Robin and sheathed her dagger. Robin clutched at his throat and still lay in the mud. “Your decision cost the lives of hundreds of men,” said Arya contemptuously. “Had you followed my orders, they might have lived. The next time you sleep, I hope they come to your dreams and eat at your conscience. And it is only because you are my cousin, that I will allow you to wake from that sleep.” Arya hurried off and pushed through knights, no one need to be reminded of the fury she had.

Sansa stepped forward as Robin rose to his feet. “Lady Sansa...” he pleaded.

“Shut up,” she said so harshly, and suddenly, everyone floundered back, caught off guard. “Your stupidity has cost us much. And cost the lives of men that otherwise would have lived. If you ever do something like that again. If you ever risk my men or my families lives. I will see to it the Vale has a new Lord Paramount. Hang the consequences should they arise.” Sansa turned to Royce. “Lord Royce. The Lord of the Vale is tired. See him to his tent.”

She left quickly, and Podrick followed his lady. They walked towards Arya, who stood motionless looking towards King's Landing. They stopped beside her and followed her gaze, and they saw a small compliment of Unsullied standing outside the destroyed gate. Above them flew a white flag.

“Parley,” Podrick said.

* * *

They met the Unsullied, in a small clearing beyond King’s Landing. By the time they arrived, the orange-gold of the sunset that lit the battlefield fell below the horizon, to be replaced by its pale sister. The moon shone on them, and Podrick thought, that this was a strange time for a parley. Then upon recalling all the strange events of the past year, he reexamined his thoughts, and figured, a parley at nightfall was hardly the strangest thing. Like the rest of their group, he sat on horseback, Beside Lady Arya, who rode her majestic white mare that brought her out of the city. Beside her was Lady Sansa, and beside her, Ser Brienne. At the end of the line, was Ser Davos. Behind them was a compliment of Stark guardsmen, including their captain, Aberdale. And amongst them a few lords. Royce, Edmure, Magnar, Manderly. Robin Arryn was nowhere to be found, Podrick believed that Sansa _ordered_ him to stay in his tent. Grey Worm, the Unsullied commander, stood at the front of his troop. His arms behind his back, his body unmoving. Like still water. Sansa and Grey Worm did most of the talking, interspersed with remarks by Lord Edmure, or one of the other lords. They spoke of the events of the day: the Dothraki attack, the presence of wildfire, and what the Unsullied were doing. Grey Worm said the Dothraki became restless and that he and his men tried to stop them from attacking. Sansa did not believe him.

“You wanted them to attack. Kill us, weaken us, so you didn’t have to deal with us,” Sansa said coldly, but Grey Worm made no response he just stayed still as water and stared at Sansa. “That is understandable,” added Sansa. “I would have done the same thing.”

They spoke further of the prisoners the Unsullied kept, asking after Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister’s health. Sansa wanted to see Jon, but no matter how much she demanded; Grey Worms answer was always “No.” Lady Sansa then asked of the health and whereabouts of Queen Cersei. This request made Grey Worm falter, and it made everyone else falter. None of them knew that Cersei was apparently still alive. Least of all Podrick. The only ones in their group who seemed to know were Arya and Sansa.

“How do you know she is alive?” Grey Worm demanded.

“So she is alive,” Sansa said. “Before you deal with Cersei. I want to speak to her.” Grey Worm did not agree to Sansa’s request, but he did not deny it either. During this whole parley, Arya Stark said no word, had no comments, made no movement. She only glowered at Grey Worm. It was not until they made an agreement, did Arya Stark finally speak. Sansa and Grey Worm agreed to a meeting in the Dragonpit to decide the future of the Realm and the prisoners. And once that was done, providing it all went well, Sansa could speak to Cersei Lannister, and then the Unsullied could do what they want with her. Grey Worm said that Yara Greyjoy and the Prince of Dorne had already arrived in King’s Landing. So, the meeting would be in two days, once Sansa and her people have sorted themselves and their dead out. Sansa warned that she was not afraid of another war, should the Unsullied try something. Grey Worm responded in kind, and Ser Davos pleaded not to hasten into another war, nobody seemed to listen. Eventually, all settled, and they made to leave. They turned their horses around to head back to the Northern encampment. But after a few strides from their horses, Sansa stopped hers and looked back. Podrick and Brienne followed suit. They turned to see Arya, who still had not moved. She still glowered at Grey Worm.

“You almost killed me,” Arya said.

“Were it so easy,” Grey Worm replied. He had been the one who stabbed Arya in her thigh, during the skirmish for Jon inside King’s Landing. Podrick heard it caused the young Stark inconceivable pain, and she was very close to death. Despite this, she lived and was walking around, giving orders and training only a few days after waking from her fever dreams. Now a silence fell between Arya and Grey Worm. The two warriors stared at each other, and neither made a move until Arya turned her horse and rode toward the encampment.

As she came between Sansa and Podrick, he heard the sisters speak.

“Grey Worm is saying he respects you. Whatever that is worth,” Sansa said.

“I don’t care,” Arya finished, then silence fell, all the way back to camp.

When they arrived, they all dismounted. Podrick yearned to remove his armour and feel something other than steel or leather on his skin. But only a dismissal would allow him to do that. So he stood beside his knight, Ser Brienne, and awaited the command of Lady Sansa. She came to them quickly, after speaking to the lords that gathered to hear what the plan was. When she arrived, Arya was beside her. And many people, soldiers, maesters, healers and lords alike stood around, watching. Why were they watching?

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa began. “On our ride down from Winterfell, I spoke to you about a man that I thought deserved a knighthood. I believe that now, more than ever.”

Podrick looked to Brienne, who was smiling.

“Podrick Payne,” Sansa words caught Podrick off guard. She rarely spoke directly to him. He was just a squire after all and Sansa never used his full name. “Over the past several years,” continued Sansa. “You have served faithfully to Ser Brienne and me. You have become a considerable warrior, that you are alive to this day after the harsh wars we have had, pay testament to that. Through it all, you have remained a good man. And during the battle with the Dothraki. You fought for me. You protected me. You risked your life to save my own. More than once.”

“You saved my life too, my lady,” Podrick said.

“Kneel,” Sansa cut in quickly, ignoring his comment.  “Podrick of House Payne.”

Brienne stepped to the side and drew her beautiful Valyrian longsword, Oathkeeper. Podrick glanced around at everyone, at Brienne, Arya, Sansa, Davos and all those who stood around them. Everyone was smiling, and Podrick had an agape face of disbelief. He knelt slowly, his knee fell into the wet mud, and he felt it squelch beneath him. But it did not bother him. He was to become a knight. By the sword of a warrior who he believed the most honourable person, he had ever known. And by the grace of the ruler of House Stark and the North, and a woman he admired.

He stared low at the ground, kneeling before Brienne and he felt the cold steel of Oathbreaker as Brienne placed it, blade flat, on his right shoulder. And so she spoke;

“In the name of the Warrior. I charge you to be brave.”

Brienne moved Oathkeeper to Podrick's other shoulder, and she continued. “In the name of the Father. I charge you to be just.”

The dull drum of Podricks heartbeat was all he could hear as Oatherkeeper rested, one more time, on his right shoulder.

“In the name of the Mother. I charge you to defend the innocent,” Brienne said, her voice choking back emotions Podrick could not even imagine. But perhaps, he thought, she might have been thinking of See Jaime Lannister. Thanks to him, she was a knight. And now it was her turn to pass it on. Ser Brienne removed Oathkeeper from Podrick, and he stared up at her. The moonlight lit her face as she smiled at him, wide eyes wet with tears. Sansa now stood beside her. She too, was smiling.

“Arise, Podrick Payne,” Brienne finished. “A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”


	18. Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei's world has collapsed and now the balance of power has turned. An old protege and enemy holds her life in her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place shortly after the dragonpit meeting. The meeting pretty much went the same as the show. I was going to do a chapter involving it, but it didn't seem interesting enough. Basically they came to the same conclusion, Jon is going to the wall. Sansa has declared independence, Bran has become king.
> 
> I will be going further into the details and issues of these things in later chapters.

Last night, she dreamed of wolves. Two of them stalked before her, howling and barking and growling. They nipped at her and bit her, all while she knelt on dirt that felt as hot as dragonfire. This was not the first dream like this, but she knew it would be the last of all her dreams, forever. For she was being led by Unsullied soldiers through the red stone rubble of King’s Landing. Her bare, scarred and pained feet, stumbling through the broken city streets. The scent of burnt flesh still lingering in the air under the noon’s golden sun. Cersei knew it was the end. All she had ever loved had gone. Her mother and father, murdered by her monster of a brother. All her children murdered. Even the baby inside her felt lifeless. Now it was her turn. She was walking to her sentencing and her death. She wished that her last dream had not been of wolves, but of Jaime. But now he was gone too.

Jaime had been with her in the end, his last wish to be by her side. They were born in this world together. Cersei wished they had left it together as well. But he died first without her, his body falling on hers, protecting her from most of the debris. She remembered flashes of falling brick and stone coming down on top of them. Jaime holding her, protecting her. The stone smashing his head, crushing his legs. The weight of her brother and the rubble suffocating Cersei until she passed out, then waking up with olive-skinned men looming over her inside a dimly lit building by the water's edge. Her entire body aching, her lungs filled with blood. Every gasp for air being an effort. The Unsullied leader, Grey Worm, had come to her a few days after she woke, telling her what had happened. The attack, the burning. The death of the Dragon Queen. The battle with the Starks. And of all of the news, the worst that she heard was that Tyrion was still alive, and Jaime was not.

Much time had passed since then. Grey Worm told her they had kept her alive so that she would face the proper punishment for what she did. They healed her only enough so that she wouldn’t die. They fed her only enough so that she would not starve to death. She had stayed in that dim room, coughing up blood and suffering for what seemed like an eternity until this day, where Cersei followed Grey Worm through the city to meet her fate. With every step, her muscles ached, her face scarred from falling rubble, her body crushed and bruised from stone and wood. Her head thumped with pain and her wrist cut and bleeding from the irons that clasped them tightly together. They walked and walked until they came to an opening. A large dirt ground, sparsed with rubble and a black platform, with stairs leading to two chairs in between a small table, placed underneath the shade of a grey canopy. A figure in a grey dress with a black breastplate and flowing red hair stood at the top of those stairs, that red hair looked familiar to Cersei.

The sudden presence of the person she hated the most broke her gaze. Tyrion waddled towards her with his stupid gait and his ugly face. Cersei grimaced when she saw him. She wanted to punch him, kick him. Prick his tiny cock and cut off. She wanted him to suffer like she did, worse than she did. For all that he had done, all of this, all of her pain, was his fault. Tyrion stopped before her and starred with sad eyes. She imagined large stones falling and crushing the imp, squishing his tiny body and mutilating his face even more. She wanted to watch him burn, to hear him scream for mercy and for none to come.

Tyrion gazed at her longingly, before he finally spoke. “Cersei, I am… I’m sorry—”

“You killed him!” she cut in tersely. Her voice croaked and scathed in her throat. “You killed Jaime just like you killed our mother and father and my sweet Myrcella. Just like you would have killed Joffrey.” Tyrion looked at her with wide and regretful eyes, but she would not allow him respite. “You are a murderer and a monster and a cruel little cunt!”

“I sent Jaime to take you out of the city,” Tyrion responded with a weak voice. “He was supposed to take you to Essos, he—”

“You sent him to his death! And all the people in this city died because of you!”

“No!” Tyrion defied her. “We gave you a chance to surrender. You goaded Daenerys!”

“Enough!” Grey Worm roared. “It is over. You have had your discussion. I will take her now.” He grabbed Cersei by the arm harshly pulled her forward though Tyrion stepped in front of them.

“I tried Cersei. I truly did. I am sorry that Jaime died. I loved him too.” he said.

Cersei stared at him with hatred. “It should have been you,” she responded coldly, she tried to spit on her little brother. Though her dry mouth produced little saliva and all of it missed to land sadly on the dirt beside Tyrion. As they stepped past him, she knew he would watch at her as she walked away, but she did not look back.

Grey Worm guided her to the base of the stairs, where a small group of soldiers waited, fitted in steel and leather, with long beards and rough faces. Northmen. They took her and escorted up the stairs of the platform. Every lift of her heavy legs strained her muscles and the irons clasped around her wrists clanged gently upon every step. Once they had reached the top of the platform, Cersei noticed the table between the two chairs under the canopy had a pitcher and two goblets on it. Fine silverware from the Red Keep. Then the red-haired woman with her back facing them suddenly spoke.

“Remove her irons,” she said. That voice, that hair. That dress, the _grey_ dress. Cersei knew who it was now.

Sansa Stark turned to face her. Sansa’s piercing blue eyes peered through Cersei. The dove had grown. Her face was fuller but still narrow and beautiful. She was even taller than she had been when she lived in King’s Landing. She was taller than Cersei now. And something else was new about her. She had confidence. There was an air that surrounded her, and a command that was not present when she was a child in King’s Landing. A Northman undid the irons around Cersei wrist and upon the sight, Sansa motioned her hand to a chair at the table.

“Have a seat, Lady Cersei,” she said.

Cersei looked to the chair, then back to Sansa. But she did not move. “You don’t tell me what to do. Do you think just because I know you didn’t kill Joffrey that I am happy to speak to you.”

“I don’t care how you feel,” Sansa shot back coldly. “I was glad to see Joffrey dead. I would have killed him myself had I the chance. The best thing about that wedding was watching him die.”

“He was my son!” Cersei yelled.

Sansa’s blank expression did not change. “He was a monster. Sit,” at that word, one of Sansa's men proceeded to shove Cersei down forcefully into the chair. She cough hard when she sat, and she could taste the blood from her lungs. Sansa began pouring wine into the two goblets, then slowly sat herself down on the other side of the table. Cersei glowered at her, as she watched the red-haired Stark take a long drink from her goblet.

“Not drinking?” Sansa suddenly asked.

Cersei starred at the goblet in front of her. She wanted to taste the wine, to savour it one last time. But she did not want to give in to this... this girl who was no better than a welp. She would not be commanded by Sansa Stark. “What did you bring me here for?”

“Strange time to stop,” Sansa ignored her question. “There is no point in whatever you are trying to do, Cersei. You have no dignity left.”

Cersei grimaced at red bitch's words. But she had to lick her dry lips. The scent of grapes filled her nose and she suddenly longed for the sweet taste of the wine. Perhaps there was no point in resisting, in trying to grasp on to whatever dignity she had left. She realised, Sansa Stark had all the power. Sansa Stark was a woman now, in command of far more than Cersei had. She grabbed the goblet and drank the wine desperately. The purple sweetness made her dizzy at first, but she slowly came to, and continued to sip. The taste was sweet, but it made her feel hollow.

Sansa contemplated her, looking her down. And a sullen expression came to Sansa. “Never thought I would see you again. I wanted to be there when they executed you.”

“Well, congratulations. You got what you wished,” Cersei said spitefully.

“In a way, I suppose. I thought that chance had gone when you killed Rhaegal and Missandei,” said Sansa, taking another drink of her wine.

“You knew the Dragon Bitch would burn the city?” Cersei asked, also taking a sip from her goblet.

“Not the whole city, but I knew she would do something destructive. I know what she was like. Power-hungry, like you. Not one to take defeat lightly. Like you. A lust for vengeance. Like you. She would have made for a tyrant. Like you. But she had something you didn’t. Dragons, and an irrational temper. And that would have made her worse than you.”

“You opposed her as Queen?”

“I opposed her rule over the North.”

“Oh, that would have been a sight,” Cersei said with a smirk. “The snarky Sansa Stark and the pompous, entitled Dragon Bitch going at it. How did you handle her, I wonder?”

“I did what I had to,” Sansa said.

“And now here you are. They told me what happened. Jon Snow is exiled, Brandon Stark has become King of the Six Kingdoms, which is a joke that will no doubt fail. Your sister apparently killed the _Night King_ and you’ll become Queen in the North. The King is dead, long live the Queen.”

Sansa stared at her for a long moment, “I’m not Queen.”

“Yet. I’ve heard all the stories about your family. And about you. You will be queen, it’s what you always wanted, no? And what did it cost?”

“Daenerys Targaryen is dead. And I am not. The world is free from a tyrant and my kingdom, my people, my family are free and safe," Sansa gave her a glaring side eye, before continuing. "That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Not the safety of your kingdom, no you never cared for the people. But you tried your hardest to protect your family, but all you did failed miserably.”

Cersei gripped the goblet in her lap tighter and grit her teeth at Sansa. “You bitch! Don’t you—"

“Do you know where we are?” Sansa interrupted coolly. “Right now, do you know?” Cersei looked aback suddenly and slowly peered around, trying to find a trick. “Look beyond the stairs to the plaza, does it look familiar?” Cersei glanced around truly trying to find something that looked familiar, but in all the rubble and destruction. Nothing looked remotely like it had before.

“What are you playing, little dove?” Cersei asked resentfully.

Sansa slammed her goblet on the table, which sent a shock through Cersei and the piercing look of hatred that came from Sansa’s blue eyes sparked unease. Those were the eyes of someone ruthless and cunning. She was not a little dove. “That half-destroyed figure there,” Sansa said, pointing at a mass of burnt stone that seemed to have broke in two. “That is the statue of Baelor. Where we sit now, is where our father lost his head while you stood there and watched your monstrosity of a son command it.”

 _Our father?_ Cersei thought perplexed. _Is she touched?_ She shot her eyes across Sansa’s face, who continued to sit and glower, unmoving. Then Cersei glanced around the plaza, it did begin to look familiar. Trust a Stark to do something like this, something to string the cords of memory, something to echo the past. She could picture the hundreds of dirty commonfolk who would have been here on that day all those years ago, watching Ned Stark confess to things he did not commit, like a fool. She had nothing to do with the decision to kill him, she tried to stop it.

“I tried to stop it,” she said.

“You tried shit,” Sansa shot back. “You were queen mother and you had no power over your son. You called yourself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and deemed to control the realm. How could you possibly hope to do that when you couldn’t even control your children?”

“BITCH!” Cersei roared as much as her pained lungs would allow and she shot up from her chair, throwing the small table to the side with what strength she had left. The table fell across the black stage and wine splashed over her grey garments and Sansa’s grey dress. Cersei flared with anger, desperately wishing she could see Sansa Stark’s head on a pole. But Sansa remained in her chair, unmoving.

“All you have left is anger and blame that you still push on others,” Sansa said, her words were a slow, methodical drawl. “Your entire life has been you forcing the liability of your mistakes onto others. But there is no one else left to blame now. And there is nothing you can do to me anymore. You have no power over me or anyone. Look around you. Look at what your power has come to. You’ve lost, your fear is nothing.”

Cersei clenched her fist hopelessly and grit her teeth seething with hatred. But the momentary infusing of rage soon left her and she staggered back, looking across the plaza. Her eyes catching the details of the red dirt destruction. Her sights finally met back with the half-destroyed Statue of Baelor. But a figure was at its base that had not been their before. The person was small, with dark hair, dressed in leather armour. Two swords, swayed at their side as the small person began to walk towards Cersei and Sansa. The figures short legs gave it short strides but she was still quick, and suddenly she was walking up the small black stairs. As they came closer, Cersei realized it was a young woman. Suddenly Sansa stood from her chair, placing her hands being her back. The young woman stood next to her, mimicking her stance. The two of them looked similar but different at the same time. The dark and brooding features of the small woman contrasted to the light and comley features of Sansa. But they both had cold eyes. Suddenly, Cersei realized who the small woman was.

“Arya Stark,” she said, confidently. Arya stared at her for a long moment, neither of the Stark sisters said a word. “Not so wild anymore,” Cersei continued. “I guess watching your father—”

“You wanted to know why you’re here.” Arya suddenly said. “You are here because my sister and I want to watch you die.”

“And you're going to kill me? With one of those swords?” Cersei asked.

With her left hand, Arya slowly drew the thin blade that was on her right hip. She pointed the tip of it directly over Cersei’s heart. “My brother gave me this sword. For many years I dreamed about putting it through your heart, for what you did to my father.” Arya slowly drew the blade down, then sheathed it. “But I’m done with all that now. I won’t get any satisfaction from killing you. But knowing that you no longer live, that you can’t threaten us or our family ever again. Will give us peace.”

As Arya finished speaking, several Unsullied began grouping at the base of the black platform. The red dirt kicking up as they formed up behind Grey Worm. “That is enough,” he shouted. “Bring her down here.” He drew a bronze coloured dagger from his belt.

Cersei began to breathe shallowly and rapidly. There was a part of her that hoped she would still live. That Sansa or Tyrion had struck a deal to see her exiled to Essos. But seeing the hatred in the eyes of Grey Worm, and the sun that glinted off his dagger. Made her realise that her hope was false. She had a feeling she would die on this day, but the sudden knowledge that it was going to happen in mere moments, made her panic with fear.

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted to Sansa and Arya. Neither of them blinked or even seemed to acknowledge the news.

“I doubt your child survived in the womb after what happened to you,” Sansa said.

“Please… I…” Cersei pleaded. “I don’t want to die.”

Sansa stook a step forward, and the smallest glimmer of pity marked her striking blue eyes. “You taught me much Cersei. I will never forget it. And I admit, there is a small part of me that respects you. But you cannot escape from all you have done. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.”

Cersei unwittingly felt her mouth drawl open, but before she could say any word in response, two Northern soldiers grabbed her by the arms and forced her down the steps of the platform. She stumbled and flailed under their grip and eventually they threw her to the ground in front of Grey Worm. The olive-skinned commander grimaced at her sight, and Unsullied soldiers turned so she faced the black platform. Sansa and Arya stood at the top, gazing down at her. The hot dirt beneath her burnt her knees and the sun pierced her already cracked and dry skin. As Cersei felt her heart pounding and her entire body shaken unwittingly, she began to feel the tears stream from her eyes. The same tears she felt when Jaime held her as their world crumbled. The same tears she felt when Joffrey died in her arms, when Tommen leapt from the Red Keep. When Myrcella returned from Dorne, lifeless. The spark Myrcella brought in life had never come back to Cersei. A spark she so desperately wished she had.

Cersei felt the cold blade of Grey Worms dagger touch her throat and she could hear him speaking. Likely sentencing her to her fate. But she dared not pay attention. She yearned for her children, for her family. She ignored the speech of Grey Worm and gazed across the plaza, her wet eyes once again found Sansa and Arya standing side by side at the top of the black platform. Suddenly she felt a pain on her neck. She felt steel cut across her throat and blood seep down her chest and across her breast. She tried to scream but gurgling only came. She tried frantically to grasps at her throat but her hands were held back. The world began to turn into a haze, she thought she was fainting. She felt pressure on her back and a moment later, she lay in the hot red dirt, drowning in blood. As her redness drained around her and the world eclipsed, she saw two wolves in the distance. The dark eyes of one, and the blue eyes of another. They watched as the lioness mewed dismally in her blood, hoping she would finally get to see her cubs again.


	19. The Wild Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow leaves for the Wall and Arya prepares to sail west. But she begins to train a new face in the ways of a water dancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a big one for this character. As the summary suggests, it begins at the scene where Jon leaves his siblings at King's Landing docks, to head to the Wall. This chapter also sets up quite a lot of future stuff.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think. :) I particularly love the ending!

She watched, as once again, Jon Snow left for the Night’s Watch. She looked to him, with tears in her eyes, while he sailed away on the skiff to the ship that would take him to the Wall. Arya’s eyes swelled, remembering Jon Snow. Jon Snow's laugh. Jon Snow's warm hugs. Jon Snow's smile. He had only just left, and she already missed him. And she might not see him again. That reality made her shudder. Arya stood between her brother and sister, and she looked up to Sansa who was fighting back her tears, but the tears were winning, and her red hair swayed gracefully in the western breeze. Arya then looked to her little brother on her other side. The whole time that she knew this version of Bran that had come south from Beyond the Wall. She could never read his face as she could with everyone else. He was always emotionless; his mind was a mystery, as were his feelings. But, as Arya gazed at her little brother in his wheelchair, she thought that she could see the smallest of emotion on Bran. A look of sadness and remorse.

“How do you plan on going west?” Sansa asked suddenly, as she wiped a tear from her cheek. It was a good question. Arya needed a ship and a crew if she ever intended on heading west. To find what mysterious lands may dwell there, to see its wonders. She fiddled with her thumbs, uncertain on the best strategy for this hurdle. She would find a way eventually, this would not be a difficult thing to accomplish. Maybe steal gold, enough to hire a crew of people crazy enough to join her. There was sure to be some gold dragons or silver stags remaining in the remnants of the Red Keep. Perhaps enough to buy a decent ship, nothing fancy though.

“I’ll get some coin, find a ship and a crew,” Arya replied.

“By get some, do you mean steal?” Sansa questioned.

“I never said that.”

“You can’t go stealing anymore,” Sansa said with an authoritative voice. “Your brother is king.”

“And your sister may become a queen,” Bran added. Arya smirked at Sansa, but her sister only looked to the water, as Jon finally reached the ship. “Sansa is right,” continued Bran. “You can’t steal, but you do need a ship. And the realm owes you a debt, me most of all. You saved my life.”

Arya gazed at him suspiciously. “Bran don’t—”

King Bran raised a hand for silence. “Remain in King’s Landing for a few weeks. I will have a ship made ready for you.”

“And I will find you a crew,” added Sansa seconds later. “You are a hero; people know your name. Know your deeds. They will follow you. Thankfully, that will make finding you a crew much easier.”

Arya looked up to her sister. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m not going to let my little sister sail away without a proper crew that I have vetted.”

“And gold,” said Bran.

Arya glanced between them both, even more perplexed. She settled on Bran. “I doubt whatever is west will accept gold dragons.”

“I never said anything about the west,” Bran finished eerily, and the sound of armoured footsteps approached. Arya and Sansa turned to see Ser Podrick, Ser Brienne and between the two, Tyrion Lannister walking towards them on the dock. He held in his hand a small leather purse that jingled as he waddled.

“King Bran told us to meet you here once Jon had left,” said Tyrion once he stopped, flashing a friendly smile to Arya and Sansa. “And to give you this, my lady.” He passed Arya the leather pouch, she took it in her hands with trepidation and slowly opened it. Inside was full of golden crowns, enough to pay for a ship. She turned her head sharply to Bran, who continued to stare out into the sea, watching Jon’s ship begin to leave.

Arya looked on, disbelief in what was happening around her. “Bran, you don’t have to do this, there are more important things. Nobody has to do anything for me.”

“We would all be dead if it were not for you,”

“It wasn’t only me,” Arya said with slight annoyance coming through, but Bran did not seem to notice.

“Sansa,” he said, turning to look at her. “Will you allow Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick to escort me to back to the Red Keep?” Arya was frustrated that she had little control over this conversation and the situation, but she gave in. She could not argue with Bran and expect a reasonable response. Especially not after his explanation for showing her the vision of their family when she had slept through fever dreams.

“Why did you show me that?” Arya asked him as they sat in his tent, the night before they were to head for the Dragonpit meeting. “What did it mean? Why me?”

“It is where our paths had led. It is what you needed at that moment,” Bran answered. And that was all Bran said. Arya had tried to get more out of him, but he spoke little, and as always, it was in riddle.

Now she stood on the docks of King’s Landing, her fingers clenched around the leather purse full of gold, staring at Bran. Sansa had nodded approval to Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick to escort Bran. Brienne was, after all, still sworn to Sansa’s service, and Podrick, even though he was no longer a squire, still followed Brienne. Arya watched as Podrick pushed Bran’s wheelchair along the docks, slowly off into the distance as Brienne marched besides.

Tyrion stepped forward, to take Bran’s place beside Arya, and he sighed heavily. “Difficult to see him go. Jon, I mean.”

“Everyone is leaving,” said Sansa, solemnly.

“Better than dying,” Arya added, and she turned. The three of them looked out into Blackwater Bay. Silence held the air as they watched Jon’s ship, with its black sails, rock across the water in the distance. It would stop at Braavos for provisions before heading to Eastwatch by the Sea. Arya smiled to herself, knowing that Jon, for the first time, was going to visit the city where she lived and trained for two years. It would have been nice to share it with him, she thought.

“There will be many songs written based on what has happened over these past years,” Tyrion said, breaking the silence. “And I would wager many of those will be about the Starks.” Neither Sansa nor Arya said a word. Arya never really had an interest in songs, that was always Sansa’s love when they were children. The songs and stories about heroic knights and fair maidens. Of everlasting love and honourable men. They all turned out to be lies, and they were not children anymore; Arya knew that Sansa no longer cared for songs.

She could sense Tyrion glancing at her and Sansa, and when he realized no one would respond, he continued. “Perhaps we could make one, hmm? A ballad by the heroic Stark sisters… and Tyrion Lannister the Hand of the King,” he said with enthusiasm.

“Not very catchy,” Sansa finally said. Arya couldn’t help but smirk, and apparently, neither could Tyrion.

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “But I do wonder what the songs would sing. Something about wolves, obviously. Tales of honour, courage, bravery. Loss, sacrifice.” Arya could sense the unease as Tyrion spoke those final words, loss and sacrifice. Pain and misery.

“Here come the wolves,” Tyrion said, in a sing-song voice. Then he stumbled through, trying to come up with more. “Here come… here come the wolves and the dragons? Here come wolves and dragons, lions and wagons? No. Shit.”

“Here come the wolves. Nowhere to run, when the wolves come,” Arya uttered, in a quiet melody. She noticed both Tyrion and Sansa gawk at her.

“Where did that come from?” Sansa asked, her face stuck in perplexion.

“I genuinely did not expect that,” said Tyrion. “But it was a great verse. Before we add any more, it needs a title. How about; The Wolves of the Nor—”

“Please.” Sansa cut in. Arya watched as her sister rolled her eyes heavily. “Maybe I should take up praying again. So I can pray to the Gods that you two don’t become bards.”

Tyrion snorted, and Arya shook her head. “You can be a bitch, you know?” she said, smirking at her older sister.

“Someone has to be,” Sansa replied. And for the first time this day, the smallest of smiles came across Sansa’s lips.

* * *

Days had passed since she watched Jon sail away to the Wall and Arya wondered where his ship might be, what Jon might be doing, and if he was okay. She thought about him as she walked through the rubble streets of King’s Landing. The afternoon’s sunlight glistened on the side of her face as she slowly paced down the Street of Steel. She looked on as men from the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands loaded wagons with rubble and burnt bodies. Sansa had ordered that her men would assist in the clean-up of King’s Landing while she stayed here. Bran, as King, asked for the aid of the other kingdoms in rebuilding the city, and naturally, they agreed.

Arya had not spoken to Sansa since Jon had left. Her sister was too busy organizing her men and talking to her lords. Sending ravens north, south, east and west. Speaking to soldiers and commoners alike who were interested in sailing west of Westeros with the _Hero of Winterfell_ — and assisting Bran and Tyrion with the cities clean up and the aid of its citizens who had survived the slaughter. Men from all over Westeros, with all different sigils emblazoned on their armour or their coats now, roamed the city helping each other and commoners alike. The sight pleased Arya, but she knew it would not last. Sooner or later someone would betray someone else, A kingdom would declare war, a family member would die by treachery or love or both, and vengeance would cloud all other avenues. Nothing ever last. She knew it. Arya sighed and continued strolling down the street, and as she gazed around at the buildings, in the distance, she noticed a group of four soldiers standing outside a structure that had not received much damage. They were not there to help in the clean-up. They were there guarding something, or someone. As she approached them, she caught a glimpse of a stag emblazoned on their breastplates.

She stopped before them, and they all glanced at her stupidly. “You’re… Arya Stark…” said one of them to her left. “I saw you and your sister at the Battle of Screaming Hill.”

Arya tilted her head. “The Battle of Screaming Hill?”

“Aye that’s what everyone is calling it, m’lady,” said another soldier. “What for all the thousands of screaming men that fought against the Dothraki… on top of the hill. You know?”

“It was you who started that scream, wasn’t it, Commander?” said the first soldier, but Arya did not answer.

“And Lady Sansa gave that speech, and she stayed with the army. Don’t see that much. It’s gonna make for a great song, I tell ya,” said a third soldier and the four of them mumbled in agreement.

“I’m not Commander anymore. Not Warden or anything like that.” Arya cut in, frustratedly. Once a true peace had been settled with the Unsullied. Arya spoke to Sansa and relinquished her command and her title of Warden of the North. Now Sansa held three titles. Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Lady Paramount of the North. Soon they would all be overshadowed by one, much larger, much more prestigious title.

“What are you guarding?” Arya asked.

“Me,” came a voice from inside. “Let the lady in.” The soldiers clumsily parted and allowed Arya through. She walked in slowly and quickly realized the building was a blacksmith's workshop. An unlit forge at the back, empty weapon racks across the walls, and Gendry Baratheon was standing by the anvil, a small blacksmith hammer in his hands. He smiled when their eyes made contact. He wore the same fine clothing he had at the Dragonpit meeting. An elegant leather tunic, well-fitting pants. Fine undershirt. Leather boots. And his token short cut black hair, and blue eyes. He looked handsome in the clothes of a lord. Arya regretfully remembered that she had not spoken to him since the battle with the Dothraki. Or the Battle of Screaming Hill, as it was now known.

“You need better guards,” Arya said. “Guards aren’t meant to make conversation with intruders, while they protect their lord.”

“They know who you are,” Gendry said as he placed the hammer on the anvil.

“I might not be who they think I am.”

“What?” Gendry’s face scrunched up.

“Never mind. What are you doing here?”

“Reminiscing, I guess.” Gendry waved a hand about the forge. “This is my old shop, Tobho Mott’s old shop. Where you’re standing right now is where your father stood when I met him.”

 _Father_. Arya had stood in many places that her father had. Knowing it hurt each time as much as the last. _How sweet it would be to see him again_. “Your shop didn’t take much damage. Can the forge still work?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah, won’t take much to get it back up. And there is a bit of steel left that wasn’t stolen.”

“Good steel?”

“Aye. Want me to make a sword? It’ll cost ya,” Gendry flashed a smile.

And Arya returned it. “I’m sure it would,” she paced around the shop, looking at the racks, the bits of steel leftover, the forge, feigning interest, until Gendry stepped in front of her, a sad look in his eyes.

“Are you really leaving to go west?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied immediately.

“Why? I was told that people who went west never returned. Elissa Farman, know about her?”

“Yes, I’ve heard the stories.”

“Then why go?”

Arya sighed. “Because I want to see what she did, I want to know what is out there, because nobody does. I want to explore; I want adventure. I won’t get that staying in Westeros.”

“After everything, you have been through, why risk it?”

“Everything I have been through is why I risk it.”

“You have family here, people that love you.”

Arya smiled faintly at Gendry and took his hand in hers. “I know and that will not change. But they don’t need me.” Her family was the safest they could be. Bran was king and surrounded by people loyal to him, not to mention his abilities that would make it difficult for anyone to betray him. Jon was heading for the Wall, where the Freefolk were now allies and the White Walkers no longer roamed. And Sansa, she would be queen, even if she wouldn’t admit it. She would let the Northmen choose, and they would choose her. Arya knew it, so did Jon. Even Cersei did. An entire kingdom would protect Sansa, plus all the allies she has made over the years. Brienne and Podrick, Lord Robin and Royce in the Vale. Family in Edmure Tully in Riverrun. Gendry in the Stormlands, Tyrion Lannister. And her brother as King of the southern kingdoms.

She felt Gendry’s fingers tighten around hers. He held her gaze with his blue eyes for a long time and even though Arya believed that her family would be safe. She understood that Gendry was talking more about himself than anyone else. But she did not want another conversation, that would retread what they had already talked about in the past. He had to move on; they both did.

Gendry took a breath and made to speak, but before a word came out from his mouth, a chaotic noise from outside caught the attention of the pair. They listened as men shouted to each other and they watched as a white figure sped past the blacksmith's shop. Half a heartbeat later, Arya recognized that the white figure had been a white horse and she immediately bolted from the shop out onto the street with Gendry following. She saw Northern stable boys run past her trying to chase down the white mare that had stopped at the end of the street, stamping its hooved foot into the red dirt.

“STOP!” she shouted viciously. And all the stable boys slid to a halt. “You won’t catch a bloody horse. What is happening?” she demanded.

“My lady!” came a deep voice from behind her. Arya and Gendry turned to see Jorge, Winterfell’s new Master of Horse. He had joined the army travelling south. He was well into his fifties, with a deep voice that reminded Arya of Bronze Yon Royce. But unlike Royce, Jorge smiled often and had a kind face.

“What have your stable boys done to her?” Arya asked as Jorge stumbled towards her, panting heavily.

“Nothin’ m’lady. I swear it. We were just feeding and brushing her as we always do, then suddenly she turned and bolted. Knocked young Gerric on his arse.” Jorge said. Gendry laughed, but Arya turned her sights towards her white mare in the distance. “Not to worry, m’lady we will get her back and calm her down,” Jorge finished.

“No, you won’t,” she said. “I’ll go to her.”

Jorge shrugged. “As you wish, m’lady.” Arya walked on alone, feeling the eyes of Gendry, Jorge, the soldiers and the stable boys following her as she strolled gently towards her white horse. The horse had hardly broken a sweat and was breathing calmly, watching Arya approach. But as Arya came closer, the mare turned her head and began trotting down another street. Arya felt uneasy, unnatural. All the same, she followed.

The white mare led her into another street, filled with rubble and half burnt buildings. Three men were loading a wagon just near Arya, and in the centre of the street, a young child played. It was a girl playing about with a large stick, swinging it wildly around her. Arya slowly approached her horse, who did not move; it remained fixated on the child. Then she suddenly shook her head and whinnied. The mare cantered back and moved its head about uneasily. Arya placed her hand on the mare’s long face and gently cooed her to calmness. The horse seemed to be unaware of where it was, and Arya furrowed her brow, as many thoughts of what just happened crossed her mind. She continued to pat the horse, whispering in her ear, slowly calming her. Eventually, the mare’s breathing slowed and succumbed to Arya’s soothing touch as Arya continued to pat her horse. She gazed into the distance at the child. The girl was in drab, cheap clothing. Arya thought that she was probably an orphan, perhaps her parents had died in the dragonfire. But there was something about the girl, the way she swung the stick so viciously screaming as she did it. The girl seemed to be practicing sword fighting and didn’t appear to be very good at it.

“Stay here,” Arya whispered in the ear of her white mare, and the horse obeyed while she walked down the street. As she came closer and closer to the girl, she had not noticed Arya’s approach until the girl had swung the long stick so far around that it would have hit Arya, had she not had grabbed it before it touched her face. The girl gave a short scream and leapt back, letting go of the stick.

“Who are you,” the girl asked, her accent was not of King’s Landing, and it held a hint of defiance and demand. Arya studied her, she was maybe the same age Arya had been when she left Winterfell all those years ago, and her entire life changed. The girl had dark brown hair that fell just past her shoulders. Large brown eyes, a narrow face. A slender, but short body and smooth olive skin. She looked like a Dornishmen.

“Who are you?” Arya asked kindly.

“I asked first,” replied the girl, she still stood defiantly, her fists clenched.

Arya smirked. “You going to fight me? You gave me your only weapon.”

“It’s a stick.”

“Which can still be used to defend yourself,” Arya held the stick in its centre and spun it around her like a staff. As she made the moves, she had practised one hundred times and more. She saw the agape mouth of the girl as she watched. Arya stopped and studied the stick. “You were wielding this like a longsword. It’s too long for that, and you are too small to use a longsword.” Arya snapped the stick in two and made pieces that were the same length as Needle.

“Hey!” the girl screamed, but Arya threw one of the broken sticks to her. The wood hit her face, and she fumbled. When the stick had landed sadly on the ground, the girl shot a dirty look at Arya who only smiled in response.

“Pick it up. Come on, fight me,” Arya urged the girl. She took the Braavosi stance and the girl moved quickly to pick up the stick. She held it with two hands, mimicking a Westerosi knight, but clearly untrained. She swung the stick wildly at Arya’s head, and Arya simply moved to the side, pushing the girl's stick away with her own.

The dark-haired girl gritted her teeth and growled. She leapt towards Arya, wailing fiercely. She swung and swung and swung. And at each swing, Arya had only to move slightly to dodge them. On the girls final, wild swing. Arya met her stick with such force, it knocked it out of the girl’s clumsy grip. And Arya stepped forward, put her leg behind the girl and pushed her down with her arm. The dark-haired girl fell hard into the dirt, and Arya pointed her stick at her and laid a foot into her chest. Then the dark-haired girl, lying beneath Arya’s sole, wailed shrilly and punched feebly at Arya’s foot. Arya looked at the girl, who growled while she punched and pushed and she jabbed the stick into the girl’s chest and caught her attention. The girl stopped her attack but still held a ferocious look of defiance.

“I watched you,” Arya began. “You were swinging the stick like you wanted to kill someone. But you won’t kill or protect anyone with how you fight.”

“I’ll learn,” growled the girl.

“Who would teach you? You’re a peasant in rags.”

“I am not!”

“Then who are you!” Arya commanded, her sudden booming voice caught the girl off guard her defiant looked parted, and unease took its place.

“I’m… I’m Estyr,” admitted the dark-haired girl called Estyr.

“Estyr who?”

“Just Estyr,” the girl replied, and Arya could see the shapes of lies in the girl’s face, but this was enough for now. She lowered the stick and lifted her foot off Estyr, and she immediately shot up off the ground.

“Where are your parents?” Arya asked.

“Why do you even care?” Estyr shot back. The defiance had returned to her.

Arya threw the stick on the ground, placed her hands behind her back. “Because I am Arya Stark. And maybe I can help you.”

Her name had jolted Estyr to attention. “Stark,” she said quietly. “Your brother is king.”

“Yes.”

“You’re Arya Stark?” Estyr asked, still disbelievingly. “You’re the Hero of Winterfell?”

“Some say.”

Estyr grinned wide, and the questions began to shoot out of her like a thousand arrows. “Is it true you broke an Unsullied shield-wall? Is it true you fought ten of them in single combat one after the other? Is it true you slew the ice demon? The Night King? Is it true you fought off one hundred dead men on your own? Are the stories about King Bran and Sansa Stark and Jon Snow true too?”

Arya furrowed her brow. “How do you know of all this? Of what happened in the North?”

“I heard the stories that other kids talked about. And some older folk who saw what happened in the city. Are they true? Queen Cersei said the dead men were tales made up by the Dragon Queen, but Allyri…” Estyr suddenly stopped and uneasily darted her eyes about. “My mother, I mean. She said they had to be true, especially if it involved the Starks.”

“Your mother is much smarter than Queen Cersei was.” Arya said with a smile “Where is she?” But the sullen and long eyed look that came across Estyr’s face was answer enough for Arya. She knew that look and had expressed it herself many times. “Was she killed by dragonfire?”

Estyr slowly shook her head. “Not by dragonfire. I… I watched Unsullied kill her. They speared her as she ran away.” Arya saw a tear roll down Estyr’s cheek, and she brushed it away harshly. “She was innocent! She was unarmed! Why would they do that!” More tears streamed from Estyr’s brown eyes and more harsh wipes with her hand.

Arya stepped closer to the girl and put a hand on her shoulder as Jon Snow had done many times with Arya. “Is that why you were training with the stick? Want to kill the Unsullied that killed your mother?”

“I’ll kill them all!”

“The Unsullied have sailed to Naath. Are you going to sail there too, kill all four thousand with a stick?”

“I will…” Estyr said half-heartedly between sobs.

“Revenge is not what you imagine, Estyr. If you follow that road for too long, you can get lost, and you might not ever return. You are too young for that.”

“I don’t care… if I knew how to fight, I could have protected my… my mother. But I didn’t, and I watched her die, and I couldn’t do anything! I won’t let that happen again, and I'm going to kill the man who killed my mother. I’m going to train. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Arya did not like where this was going. “You’re going to train yourself?”

Estyr nodded quickly and wiped one last tear from her cheek.

“No, you’re not,” Arya rose and eyed Estyr down. “Want to meet the king?”

“What?” Estyr asked with complete surprise.

* * *

The Throne Room of the Red keep already showed the rejuvenation of King’s Landing. The snow and ash that once littered the floor had wholly gone. The braziers fixed and cleaned. The pillars lining the centre of the hall had men brushing them down and begun repair work. Those that were all but destroyed, had framing erected to begin their reconstruction. Even work on relaying stone had started at the gaping hole in the wall that provided a view of Blackwater Bay. The only item that was not touched was the Iron Throne. It lay in a sad molten slump of iron, drooping down the stairs of the Throne Room’s dais.

“It will stay there, as a reminder,” Bran said, sitting in his chair beside Arya as she stared at the slump.

“That, and probably because it’s too bloody hard to move,” she replied.

“That too,” Tyrion said on her other side. “What brings you here, my lady? And with such company.” Tyrion was, of course, talking about Estyr who stood a good distance away out of earshot.

“I would like somewhere private to train,” Arya answered.

“Private? King’s Landing is a big city. And has recently begun renovation,” said Tyrion.

“In the Red Keep, away from prying eyes and distractions.”

“I suppose you would like practice swords as well?”

“If it’s possible.”

“We’ll find something. This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the common child standing behind us, would it?”

“Might do.”

Tyrion gazed into her eyes. “Why would Arya Stark have any interest training peasant children when she is about to go west? You do know we have set up camps for orphans and those who lost their homes? Sansa helped with them; in fact, she is at one this very minute. Take the girl there.”

Arya looked mournfully at the melted throne and dais. Then turned around to fix her gaze on Estyr. Tyrion followed her gaze, and as Arya watched the Dornish peasant girl glancing about the Throne Room, she felt her heart get heavy. “The girl is set on an idea. If I leave her with it, she won’t live for long.”

“Many children have had their whole lives changed recently,” said Tyrion with remorse. “Men and women too. What makes you believe she will die quicker than others. What makes you want to change that? Why is she so important?”

“I know the look she has in her eyes. And I know where it can lead.”

“And what look is that?”

“Vengeance,” Arya took a long breath and called out down the hall. “You! Come here!”

Estyr began a nervous walk towards them, and as she did Ser Podrick came and turned Bran’s chair around, and the four of them moved slowly to meet the girl. Sansa had told Podrick to stay by Bran’s side, while Brienne stayed with her. He moved Bran where he was needed and protected him at all times. Podrick was in every sense of the word, a Kingsguard. Only without the title, and the golden armour.

“Hello,” Tyrion said joyfully, as Estyr finally reached them. The girl glanced at each of them uncertain. “It seems you have been lucky enough to gain favour with Lady Arya. I am Tyrion Lannister, and this is our King. Bran the Broken.” Once again, Estyr glanced about unsure of what to say or do, then as if suddenly remembering, she dropped to one knee before Bran. She knelt for a long moment before Bran motioned her to stand.

Estyr was staring at Bran, looking at him as if she was trying to figure out some problem. “How does a cripple become King?” she asked Bran. Tyrion made an awkward cough and Arya looked down at her brother. Of all the things she expected to see, this was not one of them. Bran was smiling at Estyr.

“A long road. And much knowledge.” Bran replied

Estyr gave a cheeky grin. “It must have been a long road being a cripple.”

“OI!” Arya shouted and whacked Estyr hard across her head, who then retreated rubbing at the new wound. But Bran still smiled, and he looked up to Arya.

“The Small Council Chambers has a map room that Cersei built. That should be sufficient space to train,” he said. Arya knew the place. She had been there with Sandor Clegane when she helped him sneak into the Red Keep during the Dragon Queen’s destruction of the city. And it was there where she said goodbye to him. To his scarred face and sad eyes. To a good man.

“Agreed,” Tyrion said. “There aren’t many free spaces in the Red Keep at the moment. You can train there anytime we don’t have council. Which… won’t be anytime soon because we have no Small Council at this point in time.”

Arya looked to Estyr swept in rags and dirt, smelling of sweat and pig shit. “Good. We’ll go there now.”

* * *

Though the rubble had cleared from the Small Council Chambers, the large map of Westeros on the floor still had cracks running through it. They would offer a challenge to Estyr, thought Arya. A good challenge. Estyr would need to practice her footing and balance and at the same time, make sure not to trip on a crack and falter. If she did, Arya would punish her in training. She spun the two wooden practice swords around in her hands that Tyrion had found for them. One, covered in soot and ash, the other had chips in its handle and on the blade. But they were good enough.

Arya continued to twirl the swords around as she circled Estyr, who stood in the centre of the room. She was reading the map, mouthing the words of castles and kingdoms. “How does a peasant know how to read?” Arya asked curiously.

Estyr shot her eyes up with surprise at the question. “My mother taught me.”

“Your Mother?” asked Arya with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Was she a Lady?”

“No… she worked at an inn, in the city.”

 _A lie_. Arya thought. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a literate innkeep.”

Estyr stayed quiet, and when it was evident that she would not say anymore, Arya threw one of the wooden swords toward her. Estyr caught it by the blade then held it with two hands at the hilt.

“Next time, you’ll catch it by the hilt,” Arya said.

“Next time, you could throw it better,” Estyr flashed a cheeky grin and Arya launched herself forward as quick as she could. Estyr did not even see Arya’s sword wack one of her knuckles, but she felt it. The Dornish girl screamed with agony and took her hand from the blade, Arya stepped back, taking the Braavosi stance.

“That hurt!” Estyr cried.

“You want me to train you?” Arya demanded.

“Yes…”

 “Then it’s going to hurt. If that is too much, then leave. You’re wasting my time.”

Estyr stood in place and raised her chin. “I want to learn.”

“Then stand right. You are not holding a battle axe or a longsword. It is a needle. A fine, delicate weapon. Stand side-face.” Arya watched as Estyr mimicked Arya’s stance clumsily. Arya took it upon herself to adjust the girls’ body, using her sword to straighten her back, showing her where to bend her knees and where her free hand should go. “You are too small to fight like a brute. But you are just the right size for speed and lethality. This is not the dance of the Westerosi knight. No hacking and hammering. This is swift and deadly; the sword you wield must be a part of your arm. Not two, but one. One arm. One motion. One hand is all that is needed.”

Arya allowed Estyr to watch her sway her blade smoothly across the air as if it was a wave of water. “But you can use both hands. I saw you before twirling the swords. You must know.” Estyr objected.

“That is not the dance you learn today. You will learn the Braavos dance. The water dance.” Again, Arya moved her blade around in mesmerising motion, glancing at Estyr who looked on intently. “Now, take your stance and try to hit me.”

And so, the training began. Estyr stood side-face and struck toward Arya, the wooden swords sang but not one hit landed on Arya. She spun around Estyr, tripped her up. Parried her attacks without ever looking and whacked her again and again. Even with each failure, Estyr would not stop. She rose from her fall and held her chin high, and Arya would call, “again!” and Estyr would once again make a strike, and she continued to stumble and fall, out skilled by Arya. And when she stumbled in a crack on the floor, Arya made sure to hit her hard with the flat of her wooden blade. Estyr cried with pain but rose back to continue fighting. The training progressed through the days, they practised twice a day, until they were both breathless. Arya showed Estyr the proper way to grip a sword, she told her of the heart and that being the quickest way to kill a person. And Estyr was eager to learn. She had begun to chase cats, and stand on one leg to practice her balance, just as Syrio Forel had told Arya to do. In the time between training, they would sit together and talk. Estyr spoke of her mother, how she died, and how she lived. Arya finally found out Estyr’s age; she was twelve. And she told Arya that she grew up in Dorne before moving to King’s Landing so her mother could work.

Estyr would talk of her childhood in Dorne, and how she would lay in the sands, looking up to the sky for shooting stars, she said that if they saw a star falling, she would make a wish. “A shooting star is the most beautiful thing. Next to a sunrise,” Estyr said one day. And she spoke of stories of the Martell’s, particularly of Oberyn Martell, the Viper, whom she seemed to admire. And to Arya’s great surprise, Estyr spoke of an old warrior queen. Nymeria of the Rhoyne. She would talk about the old stories of Nymeria, tales Arya knew too well.

“I used to read about the old Targaryen queens, Rhaenys and Visenya and Nymeria too. I always liked her stories more,” Arya said one day. “I had a direwolf that I named Nymeria, you know?”

With this unveiling, Estyr’s eyes lit up, and she begged to hear more. Arya told her of her direwolf, and of the ones her brothers and sister had. And that somewhere out in the wild, Nymeria still roamed, and Ghost waited for Jon. Overtime, Estyr began to ask Arya about her family and her home of Winterfell. And Arya told her, not everything, but what most others knew about her family and she added enough that Estyr would know Sansa and Jon by reputation. Estyr continued to ask about the Long Night and the dragons. About the swords Arya had and the training she underwent. About the people she met and the people she killed. She asked about battles, and if they were like in the books.

They sat together in the corner of the map room, Estyr bit off a piece of jerky and passed it to Arya. “You’ve been in a few battles?”

“A few,” said Arya, as she bit into the jerky and took a drink of her ale.

“What are they like? What is it like to fight in them? Are they like the stories?”

“You ask a lot of questions, girl.”

“You’re my teacher. I want to learn.”

Arya took another drink from her ale, then sighed. “It’s chaotic. It’s not something I’d ever wish you to experience. I don’t know if it’s like this for other people, but my brother Jon told me he experienced the same things I do.”

“What things?” Estyr asked, her voice full of curiosity.

“There is a feeling, not an emotion, but a buzz, I suppose, or adrenaline. But it’s not really that either. It’s a fury, a battle fury. And when I fight, that is all there is. There is nothing but that on either end, and it seems to last for only a moment before it's gone and you see all the dead that you’ve killed surround you.”

“Is it hard to kill?” Estyr asked after a brief silence.

“Not for me,” Arya replied. She turned to face the Dornish girl, her arms bruised, her knuckles scarred with wounds. “Why do you think I train you, Estyr?”

“So I can fight, so I can kill.”

Arya slowly shook her head. “No. I train you so you can live. This world is a harsh place even in times of peace, and your eyes are filled with vengeance, as mine once were. But the only reason I am alive today is because of other people. Else I would have died a long time ago.” Estyr furrowed her brow, Arya continued speaking. “You might not have that; I train you, so you can protect yourself and others, and live. Do you understand?”

“I… think so…”

“You have to promise me that you won't go and satisfy your vengeance. Don’t go and look for the Unsullied.”

“They killed my mother,” said Estyr with sad eyes.

“And they will kill you too. Do you believe your mother would want that for you, to give up your life so carelessly?” Arya watched as Estyr looked sadly to the ground and she put a hand on the Dornish girl's shoulder. "Promise me, Estyr."

Estyr's wet eyes met her. "I promise."

"Good," said Arya with a smile.“Now, my turn to ask questions.”

Estyr expression went dubious. “What questions?”

“You are hiding something from me. I can tell, do not try and deny it.”

Estyr’s face became a nervous patter as her mind raced with a response. She finally took a deep breath. “I made a promise to someone that I wouldn’t ever tell anyone about my secret. Not until the right moment.”

Arya removed her hand. “Does this secret threaten my brother, the King. Or Sansa, or Jon?”

“I… I don’t think so, not unless they get involved. But they have no reason too, and I don’t want them too.”

“You understand I can’t fully trust you because of this. That I don’t truly know you.”

“I made a promise I can’t break that. I’m sorry!” Estyr pleaded. “It won’t affect us, please don’t stop training me!”

Arya looked into Estyr’s large dark eyes. She was curious about what she was hiding, but Estyr was as honest as she ever has been in this conversation. Arya knew that the girl truly believed her secret would not affect them, and in reality, it could be nothing major. Estyr wanted to keep a promise she made, and that was no bad thing. Arya smiled at the girl, “Come on; let's finish training.”

Estyr faced beamed with joy at the words and Arya rose quickly off the ground, and suddenly the world spun, and she placed her hand on the wall. “Oh, fuck.”

Estyr snorted and began laughing. “What!?”

“Might have drunk too much,” replied Arya and she shook her head roughly. “I’m alright, come on.”

Estyr picked up her sword, rose and gave Arya a devilish smile. “Back in Dorne, I knew this old wet-nurse who said that curses were for dim-witted fools.”

“That wet-nurse was a dim-witted fool,” Arya replied. “But if you curse to look tough, then you are more of a fool.”

“What about when you just cursed?”

“Sometimes, it feels good to let it out.”

“Like when you’ve had too much ale?” Estyr giggled and flashed a thin smirk.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue,” said Arya, positioning her sword before her.

Estyr continued to smirk. “That’s what my mother said.” At those words, Arya attacked. Despite the ale, Estyr could still not hit her.

As more days went by and more training progressed, Arya showed Estyr drills that she could practice in her own time. “Train every day with these drills. Every. Single. Day.” Arya would tell her. “That is how I got better. Once I have left, practice these drills until you find someone that you can train with.” Arya would also show her brief glimpses and drills of staff training and using a weapon in each hand, telling Estyr of her time practicing these techniques under the tutelage of the Faceless Men.

Though they were rarely bothered during training due to there being no Small Council, Tyrion would often pass by to look on and offer something witty to say, before leaving to fulfil tasks as the Hand. When they were not together, Arya would spend her time walking through King’s Landing, waiting for her a crew she had not met, and a ship she had not seen. Eventually, Bran told her that they had found a ship and it was being repaired and refitted for use and that soon she could go and see it. Yet she had still not spoken to Sansa. She did not ever seem to visit the Red Keep, Arya figured Sansa had spent enough time here when she was younger. She visited Gendry and asked him for a particular favour, which he accepted with a hundred question that Arya did not answer. She spoke to Samwell Tarly and learned that Gilly was making her way south and that Sam was chosen by Bran, to be Grand Maester once he finished his Maester training at the Citadel. On another day, as she walked up King’s Landing’s main street, heading toward the Red Keep. Arya was come upon by a group of small Northern soldiers, carrying crude swords and three-pronged spears, outfitted in boiled leather, and coats of green. The sigil of House Reed graced a pin that held their cloaks together. Meera and Howland Reed stepped out from the centre of the soldiers. Both were smiling sadly.

“My Lord. Meera,” Arya addressed them. “How can I help you?”

“We’ve come to bid farewell,” said Howland.

“I’m sorry to hear.”

“Don’t be,” Meera said. “We hate this shit city. Lady Sansa has allowed us and our men to leave back home to Greywater Watch. Not out of the kindness of her heart, though.”

“The Neck is the first defence of the North, and it’s an entryway. She doesn’t want to leave it undefended for so long, even in peacetime. Can’t say I disagree with her.” Howland said.

“I’m not surprised. Do you march for the Neck?” Arya asked.

“I do, but not father,” Meera said.

“Yes, Meera will lead our men back home to the Neck. Lord Wyman Manderley will be returning to White Harbor with his men via his ships. I will join them and then sail to the Wall.”

Arya shot Howland a confused look. “Why the Wall?”

“Never seen it. Thought I’d better.”

She nodded, “If you see Jon, say hello for me?”

“Of course, my lady,” Howland said kindly. The Reeds, along with the Manderlys left that afternoon, and the city became a little quieter. The proceeding days seemed to drag on slowly, the sun rose and blistered the land, winter felt done and gone as King’s Landing was ever so prudently cleaned, and repairs began at no great haste. Arya trained in a thin tunic and pants alongside Estyr in the same outfit, who was ever so slowly getting better. The girl was a good student, if not a smart-arse. Estyr no longer caught herself on cracks, and she was able to defend herself from a few of Arya’s strikes. She even said that she almost caught a cat.

“I almost had it!” she pleaded.

“But you didn’t catch it,” replied Arya with a teasing tone. “Do you want to be as quiet as a shadow and as quick as a snake?”

“Yes! As quick as the Viper.”

“Quicker. Oberyn Martell is dead,” Arya moved to attack, but out the corner of her eye, she saw Gendry and Sansa walk into the chambers together. Her momentary paused was caught by Estyr who made her attack and whacked Arya hard on her arm. Estyr smiled wide when she heard Arya’s grunt, but she was no longer smiling when Arya disarmed her sword and knocked her to the ground.

“Dead girl,” Arya said, with her wooden sword pushed against Estyr’s chest.

“I got you first,” Estyr responded with defiance.

“She did, I saw it,” came Sansa’s voice as her and Gendry slowly approached.

Arya withdrew her sword. “Get up,” Estyr rose, but she had her eyes fixated on Sansa and Gendry who she only just noticed. “Practice your drills,” Arya told her, and she walked off with Sansa and Gendry to the council chambers long table beside the windows. Arya approached the chair that she had placed her doublet around and stood by it. Gendry approached, holding in his hands a small object wrapped in a sheet. He placed it on the table and unfurled it, and removed it from its holder. Its steel glimmered in the sunlight, and as Arya ran her fingers across its edges and point, she could feel how sharp it was. _You could poke someone full of holes if you're quick enough._

“I can be quick,” Arya mumbled beneath her breath.

“What?” Gendry asked with a strange look.

“Nothing,” she reached inside her doublet beside her, pulling out the small leather pouch full of gold dragons. But as she reached inside the pouch, she felt Gendry's hand on hers.

She looked at him, and he shook his head. “Friends don’t pay.”

“This is fine work, Gendry,” Arya said as she shook his hand off.

“Consider it a parting gift.”

“It’s not for me.”

“I know. But it’s the least I could do before I go.”

“Go?”

“I leave for Storm’s End, today. My men are already waiting outside the city for me.”

Arya’s heart suddenly dropped. “You never told me.”

“I’ve been busy, and so have you. Besides, I knew I would see you one last time,” Gendry’s eyes went sad. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I know,” Arya replied with a smile. She expected Gendry to take offence maybe or say something smart in response, but he only laughed. Arya grabbed his face and kissed his lips. Then they embraced. His burly arms held her tight, and she could feel tears in her eyes.

Suddenly, Gendry parted from the hug, wiping his own eyes. “You be careful, ok?” he said. Then he turned to Sansa. “Lady Sansa, I--”

“I’m sure I will see you again, Gendry,” Sansa said, smiling. “Feel free to send a raven to Winterfell if you ever need assistance.”

“Thank you, my lady,” He bowed to her, then with one last, sad look, he glanced at Arya and smiled. Gendry Baratheon slowly left the Small Council Chambers, and Arya’s life.

Sansa approached Arya. “Gendry will do well. I’ve spoken to a few of the Storm Lord’s the past few days. He has truly earned their respect.”

“They owe him more than that.”

“Agreed,” Sansa's expression fell dour as she looked on. “Arya, Samwell leaves today too. For the Citadel.”

“Everyone is leaving.”

“Yes. He waits for us outside.”

“Outside?”

“He and I have things to show you.” Sansa led the way through the shattered halls of the Red Keep, and Arya followed, taking with her the wrapped steel and the pouch of gold and ordered Estyr to continue practicing her drills. The sisters walked on, past repair work that had begun and debris that still littered the keep and much of King’s Landing itself. They walked outside then toward the broad stairs to the Red Keep’s entrance, and together they stood where Daenerys once stood, where she had given her speech of world domination toward the plaza lined from edge to edge with Dothraki and Unsullied. The same plaza where Arya fought the Unsullied, and almost died. Samwell Tarly stood at the base of the stairs, holding his hands a plethora of books and rolls of paper. Next to him, was a motley crew of people, fifteen in total. Young and old, man and woman. Commoner, soldier and one man who dressed in fine silk. At the sight of Sansa and Arya’s presence, Samwell ascended the stairs, with those people following him. Eventually, he arrived and one by one, so did the others, they all stood in front of Sansa and Arya, beaming.

“Hello,” Sam said with his usual friendly smile.

“Hello, Sam,” replied Arya. “Sansa tells me you leave for the Citadel?”

“I am. A trader ship from Old Town will take me there soon. But I’ve brought some things for you,” Samwell laid out before Arya, two books and several large scrolls on the ground, as well as a bag that held a compass, an old monocular and plentiful inkwells, blank parchments and quills. Sam rose, smiling. “What is in the bag is largely self-explanatory, you can navigate where you’re going and write down what you find if you like.”

“I’m not much of a writer,” Arya replied with a thin smile.

“Doesn’t have to be special,” Sam said with a laugh. “I’d still read it. I’d love to know what is west… but anyway… The books talk about what we know of what is west, which is almost nothing. The scrolls are maps of Westeros and what we believe lies west… which is mostly water.”

“Thank you, Sam,” she replied in earnest as she stared at the objects on the ground.

“It’s my pleasure. I really should get going though. The ship might leave without me.”

“Farewell, Sam,” Sansa said. “And thank you for all you have done.”

Sam made his normal reaction when someone complimented or thanked him, he played with his hands, glanced at the ground or some invisible person beside him, all the while smiling with red cheeks. “Oh, well... It’s nothing. That’s what friends are for, right?” he finally said. And then they watched as slowly he descended the long staircase to begin his journey back to Old Town and the Citadel.

The fifteen people still stood before Sansa and Arya, waiting patiently for their moment. Layered in rags or leather, some soldiers wore steel armour, and there was one red-bearded soldier Arya recognised. “Arya, this is your crew,” Sansa announced, waving a hand by each one. And from one end to the other, they began to introduce themselves and tell their story and why they would join Arya. Six Northmen, Gidden, Haren, Holt, Symon, Wyll and Mikel. Gidden and Symon were fishermen in White Harbor before they got levied into the Northern army, though Symon had experience working on larger vessels. Haren, Holt and Wyll were soldiers that had gone with Jon when he sailed to Dragonstone to meet Daenerys Targaryen. They knew their way around a ship.

Mikel was the one Arya was familiar with. He had guarded her alongside Aberdale when she had fallen in battle and had mistakenly given her water, instead of ale. He was happy to join her, though he had no experience on a ship, he was a good fighter and a hard worker. Then there were three Valemen, Rowen, Donnel and Ossy. Rowen had served on trader ships that went between Gulltown, Braavos and Pentos. Donnel and Ossy served together at Snakewood, travelling across the Narrow Sea. The Northmen and Valemen had lost either their homes, or family, and some, like Mikel and Wyll, had lost both. They were still young and keen to move on, they knew their way around a ship and the sea, and they were all tough and burly men. But most importantly, Sansa made it clear that they all knew Arya, either through directly witnessing her actions, or hearing of the things she had done. They were loyal to the to Sansa and the Stark name and loyal to Arya, and they highly respected her.

Three other men were next, they were neither Northerners nor Valemen, but residents of King’s Landing. Pratt was a soldier who served in the Royal Fleet when it existed, though he had no loyalty to Cersei, as his wife had died in the explosion that destroyed the Great Sept and much of the surrounding buildings. When he heard of Sansa asking for men to join Arya, he jumped at it — saying that he missed the sea. Elyas and Barten were former shipbuilders, two common men who knew the ins and outs of many different types of ships. Neither of them had a family, and after seeing the destruction that Drogon and Daenerys had brought, they were keen to leave this place and wipe the horror from their memory with western waves. The three men were older than the rest, though they still had light in their eyes and were eager to travel.

Beside them and looking out of place, stood two women; one, who looked like she was in her forties and another younger girl, seemingly of Arya’s age. The older woman's name was Alora.

“Have you served on a ship, Alora?” Arya asked her.

“Nope,” the woman replied with a smile, that showed her mouth only housed a few teeth.

Arya raised both her eyebrows. “Then what can you offer me and my crew?”

“I can fish,”

“So can half these men.”

Alora cackled “Aye, but can they cook what they catch? These dimwits would probably burn it or eat it raw and get themselves sick.”

“So you can cook?” Arya asked patiently.

“I’m probably one of the best cooks in this stinking city.”

“That’s a bold claim. Can anyone here back it up?” Arya put the question to the entire group, but none spoke up.

“I only cooked for my family,” Alora said defensively.

“An’ where are they,” Holt suddenly asked.

“Dead,” said Alora bluntly. That seemed to be the theme of this crew, Arya thought. Though even if Alora was not the greatest cook, Arya knew to have someone that could make even a halfway decent meal would be beneficial.

“Why do you want to join?” Arya asked her.

“Me husband. He was a shipbuilder in Lannisport, and he used to sail on them sometimes. Whenever he did, he would go on abouts how great it was. ‘What a family a ship’s crew is. The great feeling of the rock of the waves and the cool wind in your hair' The stupid bastard was bald though.” All of them laughed at Alora's comment, even Sansa and Arya. Then Alora continued. “But then he died, started coughing up blood, month or so later, he was gone... Then the War of the Five Kings started, and I fled with my two sons to King's Landing looking for work. Now I'm here in this shit city, with my two sons dead and my home destroyed I got nothing. When I heard the Lady Sansa was seeking people for a crew. It made me think of me husband and what he would say about the cool air and family. I thought maybe I could see the vast ocean and maybe not die alone.”

Arya nodded solemnly in understanding. “Did your son’s die when King’s Landing was sacked and burned?” Arya asked her after a moment. She was dreading the answer but what came was worse than she could have imagined.

“Neither,” Alora stated. “They was levied into the Lannister Army just after we got to King's Landing. They died to Robb Stark at the Battle of the Whispering Woods.”

Arya’s eyes went wide. But it was Sansa whose shock came first. “You failed to mention that when I brought you in,” Sansa snapped, her voice was full of ice.

“Well, I‘m mentioning it now,” Alora replied coolly. “You think I’m gonna kill ya sister?”

“How do I know you won’t kill me?” Arya asked. “You want to serve under a woman whose family killed yours? How do I know you won’t poison my food? Try and slit my throat?”

“Well, if the stories about you are true, then I’d be stupid to even try either of those. ‘Sides, killing you won’t bring me sons back. And ya not to blame for the wars they fought and died in. If my sons were here, they wouldn’t want me to cling on to hatred and revenge. You take me in, and I’ll serve you to the best of me ability. I’ll cook for you, clean. Wash ya clothes, wash ya hair. I’ll fish, I’ll even fight for you if I have too. All that I ask is that you remain good, and just. Give me last days some meaning, make the memory of me husband and sons proud. If me service is not good enough, if my cooking turns shit or makes you sick, then you can do what you will with me.”

Alora’s words stalled Arya, she glanced up to her sister and noticed the ice that once marked Sansa’s face changed to one showing a look of respect. Sansa turned to Arya, “It’s your choice,” she said.

“If your service fails me, I’ll throw you overboard,” Arya said bluntly.

Alora only smiled her toothy grin. “Then I’ll swim with the mermaids.”

Arya decided that she liked this woman. “Welcome aboard,” she said. Then glanced at the young woman besides Alora. Though this woman mostly looked to the ground, the whole time Arya stood before her, she caught the woman taking glances at Arya, long, drawn-out glances. Though she was only a commoner, she had a beauty about her. “What about you? What’s your name?” asked Arya.

“Tessa,” said the fair-haired girl timidly. “Tessa Fairmanne, M’lady.”

“I’m not your lady,” Arya replied with a flat tone. “What can you offer my crew?”

“I’m sorry… I can sing, my lad… erm.”

“I don’t have much use for singers.”

“Yes, because apparently you can sing yourself,” Sansa muttered from beside Arya so that only the two of them could hear. Arya glared up at her, and Sansa held back a laugh.

“No…,” said Tessa uneasily. “But maybe your men do.”

A murmur of agreement came from the men. “Wouldn’t say no to a song now and again,” Gidden said.

“Songs can lift the spirits,” added Holt.

“And a sea shanty makes sailing the rough seas easier,” Pratt finished.

Arya’s eyes scrolled across the men, then fixated onto Tessa who was smiling at the men who agreed with her. But upon noticing Arya, her smile faded, and she immediately cowered back. “I can also set bones…” she added meekly. “I can stitch many types of wounds… I can make milk of the poppy or dreamwine. My uncle was a maester, he taught me much.”

“That’s more like it,” said Arya “But you're timid and afraid. This journey we go on will be difficult. Why do you want to join?”

Tessa did not answer. Instead, she looked at her feet, apprehensively and fiddled with her hands. Suddenly Sansa stepped forward and spoke to Tessa in a soft voice. “Tell Arya, what you told me, Tessa.”

Tessa’s meek eyes glanced at Arya, and she gathered the courage to speak. “I don’t know if you remember, my la… erm, Arya… But when the dragon was burning the city, I saw you. You came into the building I was hiding in with a group of women and children.”

“I remember,” said Arya. She remembered that day all too well. She remembered every painful memory over the past seven years. “I didn’t think anyone survived.”

Tessa nodded her head and gave a small smile. “We did… some of us did… You came in and told us we needed to leave. And we started to, just after we left, the dragon burned the building down. But…”

“But what?”

“I was with my little sister in that building, but in all the chaos of trying to escape and the dragon coming back down. I lost her… After the battle, I returned to where I last saw her… and… and…” Tessa began weeping profusely, though as she did, she pulled out a small wooden object from underneath her white dress. Although the object had become blackened with soot and fire, Arya could see that it had once been a small toy ship.

“This was my little sisters…” Tessa continued, fighting back the tears. “Father made it for her… she had it with her when she was burned alive… This is all that I have left of her and my family…” Arya could not help but feel her heart sink. This story brought back images of the young girl and her mother that Arya had tried to help but failed. The young girl with the small wooden toy horse. Tessa wiped her red cheeks and continued. “My father was a sailor. And my little sister dreamed of going sailing with him and eventually sailing herself on her adventure across the seas. She wanted to go to the Summer Isles, to Skagos. She wanted to visit the Targaryen Islands and then go west. She wanted to go on an adventure.”

Arya stepped forward and took the toy ship from Tessa’s hands and studied it. It was nothing special, a crudely made ship, carved with a knife. But it meant the world to Tessa. “What was your sister’s name?” she asked.

“Sera,” Tessa said, her lips shook when she spoke.

Arya handed her back the wooden ship, “You want to join us for the memory of your sister?”

Tessa nodded. “I have nothing left here… I never wanted adventure, but Sera did. So maybe I can give her that by taking her ship with me… and remembering her. Maybe she is watching me from the seven heavens…”

“Maybe she is,” said Arya. “We aren’t going to Skagos or to the Summer Isles. But we will be stopping at the Targaryen Islands. And the first place we discover across the Sunset Sea will be named after your sister, Sera Fairmanne.”

More tears fell from Tessa’s eyes, but a broad smile she gave to Arya joined them. “Thank you… my, erm... I—”

“Captain. I am thinking is a suitable title,” said a voice that belonged to the fifteenth person. The man dressed in purple and blue garments with a rapier at his side. His skin was tanned and his head bald. He had the accent of a Braavosi.

“Arya,” Sansa began. “This Lyno Alestor.” The man bowed extravagantly and gave them all a wide grin.

“You’re from Braavos,” Arya stated.

“Indeed. And you lived there no? Was trained by a Braavosi? A First Sword himself.”

“You know this?”

“Yes, it is why I wish to join you. I knew Syrio Forel by reputation only. But to be trained by a man, nine years as First Sword… Ah, a great honour.”

Arya smiled to herself, thinking of Syrio. “Were you a First Sword?”

Lyno laughed jauntily. “No, no. But! Seven years Lyno Alestor was Boatswain in the Sealord’s crew. Before that, he was a Bravo, water dancing by the Moon Pool. Now he comes to these Sunset Kingdoms for more adventure, and he hears tales of a small woman that killed a demon, commanded armies, and flew into battle all the while pirouetting through the air like a water dancer. And now this woman, who Lyno learns was trained by Syrio Forel himself, wishes to become a pioneer and seeks a crew to go on a grand adventure. How could Lyno resist, hmm? I have served and lived on ships my entire life, I know the will of the seas and the crash of their waves. I know the hums that come from a ship’s hull and the songs to sooth it. Arya Stark, it would be my honour, to be your First Mate.”

When she stepped back and ran her gaze over the people before her, they were all looking to her for what she would say next. Some had wide eyes, and others were smiling. Some, like Alora, stood impossible still, waiting though they were all looking to Arya, to their Captain.

Arya swallowed dryly. “I’ve been on a few ships, helped around on decks before. Travelled to Braavos and back. But I am not the most experienced when it comes to ships and being a captain. And the journey we take will not be kind. We might very well die. We may not ever return to Westeros. You won’t get gold or silver. I cannot offer you a castle or fortress from where you can grow old and fat. There will be little comfort where we go. If you follow me, I will take you down a cold and brutal path… But if you do, if you fight for me, if you stay loyal to me… it will be a path that the world will remember. Your families may have died in all these shit wars that had nothing to do with you. But their names and yours will not be forgotten, because the world will know of this crew, the men and women that sailed west to discover a world that perhaps no other person has.”

The men and women of her crew nodded their heads in agreement, Mikel cheered, Alora shot a toothy grin. Tessa’s eyes lit up, and Arya made her final word. “Follow me, and you will have my oath. I do not care if you are high or low born. If you’re a Northerner or Southerner. I will fight for every one of you. My sister has found you all suitable to join me, and I trust her judgement. There is no one better that would know the character of a person. My mind is clear on what I want to do, though I cannot do it without you. So, knowing all this, will you still join me?”

“Aye!” Mikel boomed.

“Aye,” said Alora with her guttural voice.

“Aye,” Lyno said with his notable Braavosi accent.

“Aye,” Tessa said immediately after. Though it was not timid like she usually was, she announced it with bluster and eagerness all while still holding in her hand, her dead sister’s toy ship. One by one the others joined the Northmen, the Valemen, the three men of King’s Landing. This was Arya’s crew. This is who she would probably be spending the rest of her life with. She was their Captain, their leader.

As their new Captain, Arya gave her first orders. Which was to take the supplies Samwell Tarly had brought and kept them safe until her ship was ready. She gave them gold to buy supplies; food, ale, wine, clothing, blankets. And she gave them all a bit extra, so they may enjoy their last few days in Westeros however they so like. Lyno Alestor offered to stay by Arya’s side, as her guard of sorts, but she denied him. She could look after herself.

Sansa and Arya returned to the inside of the Red Keep, slowly making their way back to the Small Council Chambers and to Estyr, who Arya hoped, had not stopped training. Neither of them spoke as they walked until they reached the chambers and stood on the platform that overlooked the map on the floor, where Estyr, to Arya’s pleasure, was still practicing her drills. The Dornish girl’s hair was damp with sweat, she panted after each drill, and though she knew Sansa and Arya had returned, she barely glanced at them.

“Who’s the girl,” Sansa suddenly asked, while they looked toward Estyr.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask me about her,” said Arya.

“Tyrion told me you started training some common girl. So, who is she?”

“Her name is Estyr. She’s an orphan. Unsullied murdered her mother during Daenerys’ attack on the city. I intended to speak to you about her.”

“What about her?”

Arya glanced to the floor and bit her lip. “Sansa, you’ve done a lot for me. But I was hoping you could do one last favour.”

“Say it.”

“When I leave… I don’t want Estyr to stay in King’s Landing, even with Bran as King… It’s…”

“A shit city,” Sansa offered.

“Yes,” Arya agreed. “Could you take her back to Winterfell when you go? Give her a home, hire someone to finish her training. Give her a purpose and something to live for.”

Sansa looked at her with startling curiosity. “This is unlike you. What is it about this girl that makes you want to do all this?”

“If she is left on her own, she might go and seek things that will get her killed. She watched her mother get murdered by Unsullied. She watched her home and her friends get burned. She has revenge in her heart. I hope that the training takes her focus and being surrounded by good people does more to quell her heart.”

“But why her? Some simple common girl? What about all the others who lost their families?”

Arya sighed. “Because I think Bran wanted me to find her. Estyr has a secret she won’t tell me because she promised someone, she would keep it,” Arya gazed down at Estyr who still trained relentlessly. “And…because, she reminds me of myself, and I don’t want her to have the life I did.”

“Well,” Sansa began. “She is about as small as you… so…”

In response to her sister’s jest. Arya took the pouch of golden dragons she still held, and forcefully rammed it into Sansa’s stomach, though the black breastplate Sansa was one to wear, took most of the impact. Sansa grabbed the pouch, laughing lightly. “What’s this for?” she asked.

“Coins, to pay for a trainer for Estyr, hire a water dancer from Braavos. Estyr is quick and well suited to that style of fighting, and it’s what I have been training her in most, with a few other techniques she can continue to learn on her own. Give her a horse, a home. Make her your ward.”

“You trust her, even with a secret she won’t tell you? You’ve known her for little over a week. She isn’t one of us, Arya.”

“And she never will be. But I’ve talked to her a lot, she says her secret won’t affect us, and she has no reason to want to harm any of us, and the more time she spends in Winterfell and with you, the more she will respect you. She admires the Starks, for what it’s worth. She’s heard the stories, she asked all about Jon and Bran. And you.”

Sansa stayed quiet for a moment, and Arya knew she was thinking over everything that had just transpired, all the words, all their meaning and all their implications. “Why would Bran do this?” Sansa suddenly asked.

“I don’t know,” Arya admitted. “And I know if I ask him, he won’t give me a straight answer.”

“It must have something to do with Dorne,” Sansa contemplated.

“Why? Because she’s Dornish?”

“Yes, why not? Perhaps she is the daughter of the Dornish Prince, what was his name? Olyvar Yronwood.”

“Where is your mind going?”

“There was a civil war in Dorne after the Sand Snakes were killed.”

“I didn’t know that,” admitted Arya.

“Nobody outside of Dorne really paid it much attention, the Dornish have always done their own thing. And we had larger concerns,” Sansa said. “The Yronwoods took power, but it is hardly stable. And Olyvar Yronwood has said that his wife is barren, and he has no heirs, but it is easy enough to lie about that. I guess that Estyr, is a Yronwood, the Yronwood’s enemies found out about her, and she was sent to King’s Landing in secret because her father fears she might be killed or kidnapped to destabilise the region. So Olyvar has no heirs of any kind. Send her the last place the Dornish would expect to find her, or even want to go to.”

“Unfortunately for the Prince of Dorne, King’s Landing was burned down,” said Arya.

“Yes, then Bran found out about her and to keep her alive and keep good faith with the Prince of Dorne, he has planned it so you would train her to help protect her and then she would go far North, safe and sound while the Yronwoods quell their kingdom.”

Arya began to rack her mind of all the implications of what Sansa had just said, but one thing did not seem to make sense. “We spoke to Olyvar Yronwood before the Dragonpit meeting,” Arya began. “He said directly to you, that he had a wife in Dorne called Gwyneth. Estyr said her mother’s name was Allyria and she that died in King’s Landing. It doesn't match up, how could Estyr be Olyvar Yronwood’s daughter?”

“Perhaps one of them isn't her true mother or both, Estyr and Olyvar could have been lying,” Sansa refuted with a wave of her hand. “It’s not out of the question, Olyvar is the Prince of Dorne and a powerful, smart man. He would have taught Estyr what to say, and how to say it, to keep people from finding out the truth.”

“I know when people lie, Sansa,” Arya objected. “Olyvar wasn’t lying when he spoke to you. Estyr wasn’t lying either, and her lust for vengeance for the murder of her mother is not something people can fake easily, let alone a twelve-year-old girl.”

Sansa took a deep breath, then turned to look into Arya’s eyes. “Regardless of what it is, it clearly has something to do with Dorne. But don’t worry, I will take Estyr to Winterfell, I will find her a trainer, I will give her purpose, I will make her my ward. I promise to do all that you ask, Arya. But if what I think about Estyr is true in some way or another, and this ends up becoming a threat to the North. I will give her up. I know you care for her, but I have a kingdom to protect, hundreds of thousands of lives. I cannot risk the threat of another war or even skirmishes with some flagrant Dornish houses that want Estyr, and the Yronwoods deposed or dead. Especially when it regards the Six Kingdoms of which the North is not a part of.”

Arya knew that this was fair; she was already asking for too much as it was. “I understand, thank you, Sansa.”

Sansa put a hand on Arya’s shoulder and squeezed it caringly. Then she left, and Arya stood alone, watching over Estyr. The Dornish girl continued her drills, her thrusts, her pirouettes, her footwork, her stance, her dance. But as Arya continued to observe the girl, she noticed Estyr movements, came with a violent grunt and each proceeding thrust came with harrowing force. She watched on, and Arya’s mind began to wander. Images of war flashed into her mind’s eye — the relentless assault of the Army of the Dead, their piercing howls as they attacked and attacked. Her wrist and neck burned as she remembered the clanger of steel that rang and the screams of people who died to the Night King’s slaughter. More memories came, the fight with Unsullied, the battle with the Dothraki. Images of Jon surrounded by men in black spiked helms. Pictures of Sansa covered in blood, lying on the ground while A Dothraki attempts to kill her. Arya shook her head to rid it of the memories, and she looked down to her hand and noticed it was shaking.

Suddenly she heard a cry from Estyr, a howl of anger. Arya looked to the Dornish girl, who was at one end of the room, hitting and wailing on a stone pillar. She smashed her wooden practice sword again and again, against the pillar and cried with anger all the while. “ESTYR!” Arya called to her, but the girl did not seem to hear her. She continued her relentless attack on the pillar, grunting and shrieking. But between each grunt, came a sob. Arya ran down the steps of the platform and towards Estyr.

“HEY!” Arya called, Estyr suddenly turned and at the same moment, swung her practice sword at Arya without thinking. Arya grabbed it quickly and ripped it from the girl’s hands. Estyr’s eyes were red with tears, and her face, flush with anger. Arya looked over the wooden sword. Its blade was chipped and splintered. “You’ve damaged your sword.”

“Sorry…” Estyr sobbed quietly.

Arya threw the sword to the ground and placed a hand on Estyr’s shoulder. “This is the second time you’ve done something like this,” Arya said. And this was true. Early in their training Estyr had seemed to lose control, she began swinging her sword around her and screaming angrily while she did it. Once Arya had calm her down, the girl started to cry. But this time, Estyr was already crying and was shaking with anger at the same time.

“I’m sorry…” Estyr said once more. “I just started to think about Allyria again and how she died. And then I began to think of killing the Unsullied, and I got angrier and angrier… I can’t get the image of her dying out of my head. And I get angry knowing that I didn’t try to help.”

“You would have died had you tried to save your mother. And she wouldn’t have wanted that. I know that it is hard to believe, but staying quiet and small and hiding away, was the smartest thing you could have done. I know that your mother would want you to live. And I know what it is like to feel what you are feeling. Trust me. I watched people I love die, and I tried to run to them and stop it, but I had people looking over me that took me away, had they not, I would have died.”

Estyr sobbed harder, then she suddenly fell into Arya’s arms and wrapped her own around Arya’s waist. Arya hugged her back, but she began to worry. Worry that perhaps training Estyr was not the right thing to do, she thought it would keep her mind busy, but it only seemed to bring out an anger in the girl. But it was too late to stop, and Estyr would continue her training even if Arya forbade it. Arya hoped that Sansa could give Estyr more in Winterfell.

“I’ve got a present for you,” Arya said into Estyr’s ear.

Estyr stepped out of the hug and wiped her teary eyes. “A present?”

Arya still held in her hands the steel wrapped in cloth. She placed it on the ground between them, unwrapped the material to expose a short sword housed in supple leather. Arya lifted it, and slowly drew the sword from its scabbard. Estyr’s eyes widened as she watched, and a smile crept on her face.

“This is very sharp,” Arya said, and she handed the blade to Estyr. “Be careful.”

The short sword was almost identical to Needle, it was the same length, with the same style of blade. Thin and sharp, made for thrusting. Though the hilt had the same material as Needle, a leather-wrapped handle with a bronze crossguard and pommel, and while Needle had its crossguard and pommel fashioned with an image of a weirwood face and a weirwood tree. Arya had asked Gendry for something different with Estyr's sword. She had the crossguard of Estyr’s sword finished with the image of a falling star and the pommel, was formed into the shape of the sun. Gendry’s work was better than Arya could have imagined. She saw the image of a falling star in the centre of the bronze crossguard distinctly, and the sun-shaped pommel was both menacing, and beautiful.

“You said that a falling star and the sun were the most beautiful things,” said Arya. “So I had them placed on the hilt, see?”

“I do! I love it! It’s like Needle. This for me?” Estyr asked, smiling wide.

“It is, they use swords like this in Braavos and Pentos and the other Free Cities. Does the weight feel good?”

“I think so,” Estyr waved the blade around in front of her. “It’s lighter than the wooden sword.”

“Yes, but you should still practise with the wooden sword to make your arms strong as they need to be. This is castle-forged steel, made by an excellent blacksmith. It’s very sharp, but you have to look after it, no whacking it against pillars.”

“I promise I won’t! That man that came here before did he make this?”

“Yes.”

“He’s handsome,” Estyr said coyly.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Arya smiled, and she continued her smile as she watched Estyr twirl her blade in her hands and then thrust and thrust joyfully. And suddenly Jon Snow’s smile flashed before Arya’s eyes. “All the best swords have names you know,” Arya said.

Estyr stopped and once again looked at the blade, running her fingers gently across its edges, then down its hilt. “Starfall,” Estyr said sullenly.

* * *

Arya's ship finished days later. Bran and Tyrion had told her the day before, and she had only seen the vessel from a distance away. All she knew of it was what Lyno had told her, that it was small, but its design meant it would be fast. “It would glide across the seas, like the wind through trees,” Lyno had said. Now it was early morning, the sun peered slightly over the horizon, but the night still held power as Arya strode quietly through King’s Landing, toward her ship. She had given orders to her crew, to prepare to set sail early in the morning, she had told Estyr that she would be going to Winterfell with Sansa, but she did not say when Arya herself was going to leave. She spoke to Bran and Tyrion, but did not ask about the truth of Estyr. She realised that she did not want to know. She had not seen Sansa for several days, but Arya left her white mare for Sansa to ride back north. Sansa would know that as a thank you. Arya wanted to sail away quietly, without fuss or goodbyes, because she hated them. She never told anyone that she planned to leave today and in such a way, the only people that knew where her crew, and she swore them to secrecy.

King’s Landing was quiet in these early hours, only the sound of the wind and the nearby waves of Blackwater Bay reverberated across the strangely calm city. Arya stepped noiselessly and quickly through the city. Most of the rubble in the streets she walked through had been cleared, which made it easier to navigate. She stepped through the street called River Row, out into Fishmonger’s Square. Then she snuck past the Gold Cloak’s that guarded the River Gate and stepped out into King’s Landing’s docks, where she marched toward her ship docked at a pier. But the dock that her ship anchored at was not barren as she had planned. Standing all along the pier, were people. Someone had let slip that she was leaving. She ground her teeth with frustration but kept walking. As she came closer to the pier and the mass of people, she noticed Lyno Alestor at the very front, before the wooden planks of the pier.

She approached him, with her hand on the hilt of Needle on her waist. “Who spoke?”

“No one, Captain. I swear it. You can ask your crew yourself. Not a one let it slip. They wouldn’t do that. They had no reason to,” Lyno pleaded.

She accepted his response, Lyno’s face held no lie; he truly believed what he said. She would find the truth out regardless of who spoke up about Arya leaving on this day, at this time. Arya stepped passed him and onto the pier. Before her, stood Ser Podrick Payne, Ser Brienne of Tarth, and Ser Davos Seaworth.

“Thought you could sneak away, eh?” Davos said, grinning.

Arya gave him a curious eye, “Was it you that found out I was leaving early?”

Davos laughed, “No! Ha. Someone much smarter than me,” he glanced at Arya’s ship behind him, then turned back to Arya. “I helped find her. She’s a fine ship. Her grey sails will go fast,” Davos would know, his opinions on ships carried much weight, given his history before he became a knight. And it was because of that history, that Bran named him as his Master of Ships. Arya had not spoken to Davos that much in the past, but he had been fiercely loyal to Jon, and the Starks. And he was half the reason Jon was even alive.

She offered him her hand. “Thank you for your help, and for staying besides Jon.”

Davos took her hand immediately, “It’s been my honour. I hope to see you again, Commander.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Davos’ eyes went sad, but he nodded knowingly. Arya’s eyes followed him as Ser Davos walked past and stepped off the pier. Arya turned back to Brienne and Podrick. Sansa said they were two of the most honourable and trustworthy people in all Westeros, Arya agreed.

“I have to thank you both, for protecting my sister,” Aya said to them.

“You never need to, my lady,” Podrick said, flashing his wide grin.

“It has been an honour to serve you and Sansa,” Brienne added. “I wish you good fortune, my lady.”

“And you, Ser Brienne.”

The two knights bowed at Arya and walked off the pier. Arya continued her walk of goodbyes as the waves gently rocked below her under the wooden pier and the eastern sunrise began to light the side of her face. Tyrion stood, in his fine garments, the gold brooch of the Hand of the King pinned to his chest. Beside him stood a tall man that Arya did not recognise. He also wore fine clothes, with a flamboyant cape attached at the back. His slick brown hair combed back, outlined a thin and hard face with a stubble beard and moustache. As she came closer to them, she thought that the fine clothes on the tall man did not seem to suit him at all.

“Captain,” Tyrion said with a satirical tone.

“Lord Hand,” Arya replied just as coyly. “Is this man your guard?”

“Fuck that!” the man blurted.

“No… Arya this is—”

“Lord Bronn Blackwater,” announced the tall man. “Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin.” He gave her a half-assed bow though Arya did not respond. She only looked at him, unimpressed. Bronn and Tyrion glance at each other.

“My lady, Lord Bronn has come to King’s Landing to fulfil his duties as Master of Coin. And he heard of the stories of you and wished to meet you,” Tyrion said.

“So he’s met me,” Arya said uncaringly.

“Aye,” Bronn replied. “And you’re a lot shorter than I thought you’d be”

“And you look like someone tried to polish a pile of horse-shit,” Arya shot back.

Bronn, to Arya’s surprise, suddenly laughed. “You lil’ cunt,” he said between chuckles

Arya smirked and Tyrion stepped forward, putting a hand on Bronn’s arm. “Lord Bronn, may I speak to the Lady Arya alone?”

“Be my fuckin’ guest,” Bronn said, and he strode off, leaving them to be.

“You keep the strangest company, Tyrion,” Arya said.

“Not by want,” Tyrion relaxed his shoulders, then smiled at Arya. “You have everything you need?”

“I believe so,”

“That’s good. I wish I knew what you were heading into, give you some advice. But no one really knows what you’ll find.”

“That’s okay. You’ve given my family and me much advice. I thank you for it.”

“Even though I served a different queen? A queen you and Sansa never trusted, and were right about?”

“We all make mistakes,”

Tyrion chuckled. “You know, I once hoped that I would live out my days with my own vineyard. Make my own wine. Call it, ‘The Imps Delight’. I would have given you a few barrels to take west, sent some to Winterfell for Sansa, to the Wall for Jon. Have some barrels in King’s Landing for Bran and his council, you know, only let my close friends drink it. But I fear the mistakes I have made would now see those dreams an impossibility.”

“I used to dream about being a knight,” Arya began. “To ride off and fight alongside father, and Jon and Robb and Bran. Our dreams never really come true.”

“No?” Tyrion said puzzled. “You became a great warrior, fought alongside Jon. People call you a hero.”

“And I’ve seen things I wish I could forget. I’ve lost people I loved and pushed others away. And there is a big part of myself that I’ve lost. I’ve killed so many people. I’ve lost count. I can’t sleep, and when I do, nightmares come. If our dreams do come true, its never the way we want. And they always have complications that we could never have imagined,” Arya felt her eyes well up, but she would not allow her tears to flow. She felt Tyrion’s hand on her shoulder.

“Years from now,” Tyrion began. “When people ask me ‘Did you know the Hero of Winterfell? Who was she? What was she like?’ I will take great pride in saying that I did know her, that she saved millions of lives and didn’t bat an eyelash at it. That she was a fierce warrior with a strong heart and a great family. Arya, I know you have all these issues because of your harrowing journey. But you should not let them shape or dictate who you are.”

Arya stared at the dwarf of Lannister. His mismatched eyes smiled back. Tyrion pat her shoulder gently then began to walk away. Arya turned her gaze to him, “Tyrion,” she called.

He stopped his waddle and faced her. “Yes, Arya?”

“Your talents are wasted on a vineyard,” Arya said.

Tyrion’s face lit up. “Was that a compliment from Arya Stark?” he asked teasing.

Arya smiled, “Your only one.”

The pier was now empty, aside from two others. Arya expected to see Sansa on the pier, but she was not there. She did not appear to be on the ship either. It was just Bran and Estyr next to each other, just before the ramp that led onto Arya ship. Her ship she now had a proper look at. It was small, at least compared to one of the ships of the Royal Fleet or Euron Greyjoy’s Fleet. But Arya did not mind. She had no use for a large warship. Her favourite part that she had not seen until this moment was the figurehead on the prow of her ship. It was a snarling direwolf head. The same as the House Stark banners, and it made her swell with pride. Arya strolled to the end of the pier were Estyr, and Bran was, their backs facing Arya, looking at the ship. As she came closer, Estyr turned. Her face shuddered with tears.

“Do you have to leave?” Estyr sobbed.

“No, I don’t have to. I want to,” Arya admitted.

“Why?!”

“Because I want to explore, to see things no other has. And I won’t get that here. Especially not after everything that has happened.”

Estyr shook her head violently. “You haven’t finished my training!”

“You’ll finish it in Winterfell.”

“No! I want you to keep training me!” Estyr cried, and her tears flowed even harder. She dropped her head down, staring at the water beneath the pier. “I want… I… Everyone leaves me.”

Arya placed a hand on Estyr shoulder, lifted her chin with the other, so they looked into each other’s eyes and wiped the tears from Estyr’s cheek. “You’ve got your Starfall?”

Estyr placed a hand on the pommel of the thin blade Arya had given her. She had strapped the sword to her side by a crude leather belt. "Yes," she said, as another tear streamed down her cheek.

“Then I will always be by your side,” Arya said, and Estyr sobbed profoundly and fell into Arya’s chest. They held onto each other for a long moment, Estyr cried and cried, and Arya herself felt the tears coming. Eventually, Estyr too walked off the pier, and all who were left was Bran — sitting in his wheelchair, gazing at Arya’s ship. She stepped up beside him.

“Your Grace,” she said.

“It is a fine ship,” King Bran said.

“So I’ve been told,” Arya replied.

“You are mad at me,” said Bran.

“I wanted to leave quietly, without a fuss. You should put a limit on your powers.”

“It wasn’t me that organised these goodbyes,”

Arya furrowed her brow. “Then, who?”

Bran looked up to her from his chair and gave her half a smile. “Who do you think?

Arya scoffed at herself, how foolish could she have been, of course, it was her. “Where is she?”

“Sansa will be here before you leave.”

“Good… Bran, about Estyr. Sansa thinks she is not a common girl but a daughter of the Prince of Dorne. Is she right? Do you have something to do with me meeting and training her? Did you warg into my horse that day I was at Gendry’s old shop?”

“I may have been,”

“Stop answering me in riddles, Bran. Estyr said her secret wouldn’t threaten our family, but if it does—”

“You cannot protect everyone, Arya. You have done your part. It is time you go west and seek out what your heart desires. Rest assured, Estyr, Sansa and Jon will be safe.”

“What about you?” Arya asked earnestly.

“I am King. I am the safest I could be.”

“Tell that to Aerys Targaryen.”

“I don’t think I’ll be burning any cities.”

Arya gazed down at Bran who was smiling to himself. “Did you just make a joke?”

Bran eyed Arya but kept smiling. “Was it funny?”

“No,” Arya said, but she contradicted herself when she began giggling.

“Then why are you laughing?” Bran said.

Arya did not answer because she couldn’t stop laughing. For the first time, in a long, long time, Arya saw a glimpse of her little brother that was still inside this Three-Eyed Raven. But the laughter turned to sadness when the sound of Ser Podrick came as he walked up the pier, intending on wheeling Bran off. Before he did though, Arya grabbed Bran’s hand and held it tight, and Bran reciprocated the touch.

“Farewell, Bran,” said Arya.

“Farewell, Wild Wolf,” Bran said with a sullen gaze.

Arya furrowed her brow at the name he gave her, but their hands parted as Podrick pushed Bran back down the peer. Arya did her best to fight the tears that she felt building in her eyes, though, one escaped. She wiped her cheek harshly then turned back and walked up the ramp onto her ship.

Her crew was busy making final preparations to sail. They hustled back and forth across the decks, shouting words to each other. Carrying barrels and bags and cages with ravens in them. As Arya drew her gaze across the ship and her crew, she noticed Alora marching toward her.

“I’ve just finished setting up the Captain’s Cabin. It’s all yours,” said the woman. Arya followed her and then stepped inside the cabin, where Alora left her alone. The back of the cabin was layered with windows that looked out into the sea. Below the windows was a table, on which the books and maps and navigation equipment from Samwell Tarly rested. The corners of the cabin housed an elegant bed, trunks full of clothes, chest for storing items and on the wall, a weapon rack where she could store her swords. The rack had a wooden placard behind it, upon which engraved a snarling direwolf. Already hanging on the rack, was the direwolf handled cane that Ser Davos had carved for Arya.

She smiled when she saw the cane, and she continued to take in her new home, but interruption came when a knock echoed on her cabin’s door. “What is it?” she asked the person who knocked.

“Captain,” came the voice of Lyno Alestor. “Lady Sansa is here.”

Arya rushed outside to see Sansa standing by the edge of the ship. Her hands behind her back and her red hair flowing in the wind. She stared toward the rising sun. “Who told you I was going to leave early?” Arya asked her when she came near.

“No one,” said Sansa. “I knew you would try to sneak away. So I gathered as many people as I could to the pier. Don’t think you can leave without a goodbye.”

“I don’t like goodbyes.”

“Neither do I. But I know that I would regret not saying a proper goodbye to you,” Sansa said, and she turned to look at Arya.

When Sansa looked at her, Arya thought she would see the same stoic look that often marked Sansa’s face. But that wasn’t the case. Sansa’s eyes were red, her lips were trembling, and her cheeks were already wet with tears. The sight broke Arya, and she felt her own face crumble with sadness.

"I like how you've done your hair," said Sansa. Of course, she was the only one to notice this change and be the one to compliment Arya on it. Arya's hair was no longer in the Northern style like Jon, or their father had done their hair. She had pulled it all back tightly into a bun — a new style, for a new time.

"Thank you," Arya responded with the presence of a small laugh that hid her tears.

Sansa breathed in deeply. “This a fine ship, have you given it a name?”

Arya wiped an eye, then cast her view across her ship, her crew had finished work, and they all stood at the very back, waiting for orders. “I’ve been told that it’s a fast ship and that her grey sails will glide across the sea like the wind. I think Grey Wind is a good name.”

She saw Sansa smile proudly. “That is a good name. Robb would have liked that.”

“I think so,” Arya said. There came a quietness between them, the sound of gulls and the water below, resonated around them. And there felt like a kind of awkwardness too, but it was not awkward because they did not know what to say, it was awkward because they did not want to say goodbye. Arya finally drew the courage to say and do, what she felt she should have done a long time ago.

“Back in Winterfell, before the Long Night,” Arya began her speech to Sansa. “Daenerys Targaryen said to me, ‘I’d better learn to kneel to my true queen.’ She was talking about herself, of course. But she was never my queen. I would have never knelt to her.”

The last time Arya had knelt for anyone was Robert Baratheon. And back then she did not do it because she wanted to. But because she had to. People expected it of her. Yet she had no care for it all the same. But on this day, when she knelt for Sansa Stark. She knelt for her queen. For her sister. She did it because it was what she wanted and because it is what Sansa deserved. Arya felt the cold of the wooden deck as her knee touched the ground and she held her head low.

“Your Grace,” Arya announced, proudly. When she heard the sound of crying, Arya lifted her head to look at Sansa who had lost control and her tears streamed down her cheek. Sansa made no attempt to wipe them away, but she placed both her hands on Arya’s arms and lifted her, but before Arya could say anything, Sansa hugged her fiercely.

Sansa’s hug was warmer than sunlight. It was an embrace snugger than the finest furs on the finest bed. Arya heard her sister cry in her ear and the reality of the situation suddenly sunk in. She realised she was probably never going to see her home of Winterfell again. She would never see her little brother Brandon Stark again. She would never see Jon Snow’s smile. And she would never see Sansa Stark, her sister, her family. Over the last couple of years, the sisters had become closer than they ever were as children. They created a bond that lasted through schemers, dead men, demons, dragons and tyrant queens. Now that bond was ending, as all things would. But Arya wanted it to last longer. However, it was too late now. She had already begun her new journey. Her path was set. Arya threw her hands around Sansa’s neck and suddenly all the emotion of the day erupted out of her. The sisters cried and cried in each other’s embrace. As the rising sun dawned on the sisters of Stark, Arya’s time in Westeros came to an end.

* * *

Grey Wind began its voyage, sailing out to sea heading its course west. A flock of seabirds flew above the ship and sang their morning song. Arya watched her crew work and work, and she saw the grey sails with their direwolf sigil blowing in the wind, and when she cast her eyes down, she glimpsed Tessa Fairmanne standing in the centre of the ship. Her white dress and fair hair blew in the wind just as the sails did, and she held in her hands, her sister’s toy ship. Then Tessa Fairmanne began singing, her own morning song;

_"Lo, the wolves of winter,_

_in their frozen castle abode._

_They remember the woes of past,_

_the betrayal the lions had sowed._

_The twins that mark the river bend,_

_and flayed men the world will never know._

_Now their names are but a memory,_

_that will sink and sunder below._

_When winter comes the world will know,_

_when the wolves howl their song._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I might explain the song at the end. It's an original song, though I did take cues from others such as the Rains of Castamere. 
> 
> The "Wolves of winter," are pretty obviously the Starks and the "frozen castle abode" is Winterfell.
> 
> The "woes of past," are the betrayals the Starks suffered, the "betrayal the lions had sowed" being the Lannisters who orchestrated the whole Red Wedding. 
> 
> The "twins that mark the River bend" are the twin castles of the Frey's and the "flayed men" are the Boltons.
> 
> The "world will never know," and, "their names are but a memory that sink and sunder below" are a reference to how Arya, Sansa and Jon avenged the betrayals that those houses did. Arya slaughtering Walder Frey and wiping out his house. Jon defeating the Boltons in the field and with Sansa's help and Sansa killing Ramsay with his hounds.
> 
> "When winter comes the world will know, when the wolves howl their song," is a reference to how the Starks say "winter is coming" as both a warning and a threat to their enemies.
> 
> The chorus that follows is pretty self explanatory I gather.


	20. The White Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A voyage is taken to the Wall, a city from a loved ones past is visited. And a final order is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays!

“M’lord,” said the former Lannister soldier.

“I’m no lord,’ Jon replied. 

“Well, you’re more of a lord than me,” the former soldier gave a short laugh, then sat on the opposite side of the table Jon sat at, below the decks of Talon, a small ship from Eastwatch by the Sea. “Captain says we're almost at Braavos. Shouldn’t be too long.” 

 _Braavos,_ that word made Jon think of Arya. _“Sansa can keep her sewing needles, I’ve got a needle of my own.”_ he grinned to himself.

“Do you know how long we’ll be in Braavos?” Jon asked the soldier.

“Maybe a day or two I think,” he replied. 

Two days would be enough time, Jon just hoped they would let him explore the city a little. Walk where Arya once did, when she sold her oysters and pretended to be other people. Like Cat of the Canals. He smiled at the image of her surviving on the street as another person. Perhaps he could even glance at this ‘House of Black and White’ that Arya had trained in. But Arya said that building was in the centre of the city, in a place called, the Isle of the Gods. Jon doubted he would get the chance.

“Want some,” the former soldier waved a small bottle of ale in front of Jon, and Jon suddenly saw the man's face in full detail. The left side had horrendous burn scars all across it. His hair, which appeared to be red, was speckled across his scalp in the places that had not burnt. He had no eyebrows, and only his right eyelid seemed to stay open. But he smiled when he saw the look of shock on Jon. “First time you seen me up close, eh?”

“Aye, I’m sorry,” Jon said.

“Oh no mind it. Here have some ale,” the soldier poured the warm ale into Jon’s nearby cup. 

“Thanks,” Jon picked up the cup once it was full and held it forward, the soldier clapped his and Jon’s together.

“Cheers. I’m Eddie, by the way,” said the soldier.

“Jon.”

“I know who you are,” said Eddie with a smile.

Jon figured. Eddie was amongst a group of former Lannister soldiers who had survived King’s Landing and sent, by Bran to the Night's Watch, either by choice or because they would not accept their new king. And some would not accept Jon either. For he had been their enemy, the man who led the Stark armies to slaughter a city. For the entire voyage up till now, nobody except the captain and a few of his crew spoke to Jon. Eddie was the first of the Lannister soldiers who he talked too. Jon took a long drink from his ale.

“Not the best stuff, eh?” said Eddie when he saw the nauseated look on Jon’s face.

Jon shrugged. “Better than what’s at the Wall.”

“You used to serve there, right?”

“Aye, you knew?”

“Everyone does. The bastard who became Lord Commander, then King in the North. We’ve all heard the stories.”

“And the man who led a slaughter,” Jon added, _And murdered the woman I loved._

“Yeah, that too,” Eddie took a drink from his cup. “Why you going to the Wall anyway?”

“You don’t know?”

Eddie shook his head.

“I killed Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon admitted.

With that news, Eddie’s eyes broadened considerably. “That was you? Seven hells, we heard someone killed her, but we didn’t know it was you.”

"It was me. King Bran had to send me to the Night’s Watch, or there would have been a war."

“Another? Between who?”

“Sansa Stark of the North, who wanted me alive and back. And the Unsullied, who wanted me dead for killing Daenerys.”

"Seven hells," Eddie repeated. "So why’d you kill her? Thought the Starks and Targaryen were allies."

"Because she burned thousands of people alive," Jon thought that was obvious. "And because she threatened the whole realm, and my… my sisters."

"Right," Eddie said. Then furrowed his brow with a sudden thought. "So the burning wasn't planned?"

"No. The attack was supposed to stop once the bells rang. But Dany… Daenerys didn't stop… then her armies started killing. Then I lost control of my men."

Eddie let out sharp exhale. "Downright macabre. Normally I'd wonder why she would do such a thing. But I got the idea of her when she attacked us on the Goldroad. That's how I got all these burns. She’s a killer, a relentless killer."

"You were with the Tarly's, and Lannisters Daenerys attacked?" Jon asked.

"Yeah. Her dragon hit our front lines that I was apart of, bunt me real good. Somehow I lived, got treated at King's Landing. Then that shit city started burning; somehow I survived that too. Would rather have just stayed in the Riverlands."

"What was in the Riverlands?" Jon asked curiously, thinking he knew the answer had something to with Arya and the Freys she wiped out.

"There was some trouble up at the Twins. I was part of a small force sent there, and we found the entire family wiped out. Never did figure out what happened, ‘cause we got orders to reinforce the attack on the Reach. All we found at the Twins were dead bodies and stories about some girl and faces. Still baffles me on what in the hells happened… no matter now, though. But it was peaceful there, you know? No wars, no dragons. And on the way to the Twins, we'd run into travellers, merchants and the like. You know, normal peace-loving people. We even ran into a young common girl travelling on her own, can you believe it? She sat with us, ate and drank. Said she was going to King's Landing. Said she was gonna kill Queen Cersei! Can you believe that!?" Eddie laughed. 

Jon smiled, he _could_ believe that. "So, did she do it?" It was a stupid question because he knew the answer.

Eddie gave Jon a quizzical look. “I think she was joking, m’lord. Ah, but we all had a laugh, she was good. Nice girl.” He drank from his cup, then gave Jon a queer look as he wiped his mouth. “Come to think of it. She looked a hell of a lot like you.”

Jon smiled again, "Maybe she was a long lost cousin," he jested. In truth, he knew who that girl was, but it was not his place to reveal it. That was Arya's story. And it would always be hers, wherever she might be.

"Maybe!" Eddie chuckled.

"You’re quite cheery, for someone who… you know…"

"For this?" Eddie pointed to his burnt face. "Well, that's kinda why I'm cheery, I suppose. I'm still alive, ain't I? Survived two dragon attacks, who else can say that?"

"What happened doesn't bother you?"

"No, not really. It's what I saw... that bothers me."

"Mhmm," Jon gave a sullen agreement. He knew well the horrors of a dragon attack.

"That's why I'm going to the Night's Watch. Maybe the freezing wall can leech it out of me: the bad memories and all. And because who will have me? My entire left side is dull, can't hold a shield, so I'm no good in the army. Can't get a woman cause of me face, even a whore won't take me. Doesn’t help that I’m a ginger, HA! All's I can do is sing and hold a sword in one shaky hand, and I guess that's good enough for the Night's Watch. Besides, I'm sick of the south now."

"The Wall isn't much better," Jon said. "It's cold and dreary and hard. And once you're sworn to the Night's Watch, you're there for life."

"Not unless I die and get brought back to life, right?"

Jon did not want to explore this conversation further. "I never asked for it." 

Eddie nodded, and the two men each took another drink but spat it up when a sudden, and excruciatingly loud horn blast shook Jon to his bones. “We being attacked!?” Eddie exclaimed.

“Don’t know,” Jon launched himself from his chair and picked up Longclaw that rested in its sheath against the table, and he and Eddie ran up the stairs onto the deck of Talon. But there were no sounds of battle, nor ships attacking. The only visible ones were ones that passed by a reasonable distance away. Then Jon saw it, an immense statue nearly as tall as the Wall. Each of its legs stood on islands that guarded the entrance of Braavos. It was made of stone and bronze and holding a broken sword high in the air. _The Titan of Braavos_ , how could he have forgotten Arya's tales about it.

 _“The Titan guards the lagoon where Braavos is,”_ Arya had said, back in Winterfell. _“It’s a statue and a fortress. At sunrise, sunset or when ships come near, the titan blast a horn to let everyone know. It’s more like a roar than a horn, its deafening and it shakes your bones when it roars.”_ Jon had remembered that day fondly, the day he returned to Winterfell with Daenerys, and when he had reunited with Bran, and Arya. He remembered Arya’s smile and the sound of her laughter as they sat together against the weirwood tree in the godswood and talked about their journeys. Or at least the parts they wanted to share at that time. It was not until later when they would tell each other about the stuff they would each rather forget.

“Fuck me,” Eddie suddenly blurted from besides Jon, gazing up at the statue in wonderment. “How can men even make such a thing.”

Jon turned to face the ginger-haired Eddie. “Wait 'till you see the Wall.”

* * *

Braavos was a sprawl of tightly compacted buildings of stone leaning upon each other, amongst canals linked by bridges below which murky waters flowed. Thousands of people littered the city, brown or olive-skinned, dark as charcoal or light as a poppy. The ones at the ports wore pale coloured garments of doublets, dresses or tunics and offered friendly smiles. Others Jon passed deeper into the city dressed in flamboyant purples or greens, some with a rapier, similar to Ayra’s Needle, at their side. And yet more wore fine silk of deep blue or blacks, carrying a smoking pipe or a beautiful woman in their hands. Though, to Jon’s bewilderment, in the entire city, not one horse could be seen. Instead, the Braavosi seemed to do all their travelling either by foot or by small boats through the canals of the city.

Jon walked from the port that he learned was called, Ragman’s Harbor, through the narrow streets and alleys of Braavos with Eddie and a few of Talon’s crew. They passed by market stalls teeming with fish and meats, pottery and fine wares, clothing and weapons. As they perused stores the crew brought supplies for the Wall, and Jon ambled by, feigning interest in the stock. Talon was to stay in Braavos for one night, then return to the seas early in the morning, the crew, including the new members of the Watch, were allowed to explore the city, but were to return to the tavern called Pynto’s by nightfall. One of many taverns and brothels at Ragman’s Harbor. Pynto’s just happened to be the cheapest.

Eddie and Jon split from the others and perused a nearby clothing stall. “No point in buying any of these,” Eddie said. “Nothing’s black. Night’s Watch will just take it off us.”

“This is,” Jon said, and he held up a small, child-sized cloak made of sheep’s wool and hard leather all dyed a deep black. “Perfect size for you Eddie.”

Eddie laughed and punched Jon’s arm lightly. “Yeah, righto _m’lord_. You’re no bigger than me. You can take it. I insist.”

Jon smiled but placed the cloak back into the stall. Even if it would fit him, he did not need it. He was provided with clothes before he left, and yet more clothing scraps from across Westeros would arrive at the Wall for its inhabitants. And he needed no cloak. He still wore the one he had when he left King’s Landing. One Sansa had made, a final gift from her. They continued on from the stalls and through the leaning buildings of homes and brothels and taverns that littered all of Braavos, the sound of water flowing through the canals as did the chatter of Braavosi in discrete conversations or loud uproar, or altogether grandiose song. One thing Jon quickly learned about the Braavosi was their love for songs. Everywhere he went the sound of bard or mummer singing a tune came glistening down the narrow alleys of the lagoon city. Whether it was a song he had heard before, such as the Rains of Castamere of the Dornishman’s Wife or a rendition that had never graced his ears.

Songs preceded them as their path through the city led out into a large canal that was twice the size of all the others and strewn across it was larger bridges. However, they were not of stone or wood, like their smaller cousins. These had decorations of fish, crabs and squids. Another bridge flowed with carvings of leafy vines. Another, painted with thousands of eyes, and on they continued, down this wide canal that seemed to lead into Braavos' centre. On each side of the canal flanking the waterways were granite statues of men, wearing bronze robes and each one held a different item. One a book, another an axe. Some a dagger, a hammer or a sword. One such statue closest to Jon held a golden star.

“Oi there!” cried a voice from below them. Jon looked down to the canal waters to see a stout man sitting in a rowboat, offering a toothy grin. “Exploring the city are ya?” The man said.

“Yeah, where are we?” Eddie asked the man.

“You're at the Canal of Heroes of course. These are statues of Braavosi Sealords of years past.”

“Does it lead to the centre of the city?” Jon hoped the answer was what he wanted.

“Yes,” the man replied boastfully. “I can take ya there if ya like? It’ll cost ya, though.”

“How much? All I've got are silver stags.”

The Stout Rower scratched his chin. “Ya Westerosi, eh? I’ll take three silver stags for the both of ya.”

“Three!?” Jon blurted, and he looked to Eddie.

Eddie offered an indifferent look. “I’m keen if your paying.”

The sigh that Jon exhausted was highly exaggerated, but he was curious to explore the city where Arya had once lived, and so, he pulled out three of his eight silver stags and handed them to the stout man in the rowboat.

“What is even in the centre of the city?” Eddie asked as he and Jon climbed into the rowboat.

“Many places, m’lord,” the Stout Rower answered. He pushed off from the walls of the canal and began rowing down between the statues. “The Isle of Gods is home to many temples, the Sept Beyond the Sea, the Temple of the Lord of Light. Temple of the Moonsingers, the House of Black and White.”

 _The House of Black and White_. _“It has a great big double door. One door is made of ebony, the other is made of weirwood.”_ Jon recalled Arya telling him. They travelled quickly through the Canal of Heroes, past more and more statues of past Sealords and under more unique and strange bridges until the waterways broke out into a vast opening littered with small islands upon which building of different colours stood. One such building they passed was all red and Jon quickly realised that it must have been the Temple of the Lord of Light, Melisandre’s religion. They rowed under a bridge and then slowly through the islands, the stout rower called out the buildings as they passed.

In the distance, was the Temple of the Moonsingers. It was a large stone white marble structure with a massive silver dome on its top. The Stout Rower continued to name the buildings: The shrine of the Weeping Lady of Lys, the Gardens of Gelenei, the Warren, the Hall of Lord Harmony and on they went. Jon had little interest in these places, but he kept his eyes out for one that had a black and white door. And before even the Stout Rower could name it, Jon saw it. The building sat on a rocky knoll of sharp grey stone. At its front was a single small dock, where grey steps led up to its massive black and white door. Jon looked on in amazement and smiled to himself, though he suddenly spotted a figure in front of the black and white door. It was a tall man, in drab grey robes, his shoulder-length hair was red on one side and white on the other. The tall man’s beady eyes seemed fixated on Jon.

“Who is that?” Jon asked

“No one. You need not worry yourself about it m’lord,” the Stout Rower said with an uneasy edge to his voice. As they continued through the isles, Jon continued to stare at the red and white-haired man even as he faded in the distance, and all the while, the man stared back. The Stout Rower took them back into the small canals of Braavos and together, Eddie and Jon dismounted the rowboat near a bridge called Nabbo’s Bridge and with the setting sun, the two strolled towards Pynto’s tavern.

“See that Moonsinger’s temple?” Eddie said as they walked. “And that Lord of Light temple, red and all? You know, for the last bit of true freedom I’m getting, this has been pretty good. Get to see a city I’ve never been to meet some people, see some sights. Can’t complain, eh? What did you like Snow?”

“Did you see that man at the House of Black and White? The one in the grey robes?” Jon said uneasily.

“Yeah, the one you stared at like a weirdo all the way back? Maybe he was just a priest of that place.”

“Aye, maybe.” 

Before long, they arrived at Pynto’s. It was a bustle even before nightfall, men drank and sang, women who seemed to be sailors, fishers, mummers or whores sang and drank along with them. Most of Talon’s crew seemed to already be there along with the former Lannister soldiers. 

“Come sit with the lads, Snow,” Eddie said to Jon.

“I don’t know if that's a good idea,” Jon replied.

“‘Course it is, c’mon,” Eddie placed a hand on Jon and moved him towards the table with the soldiers. They walked slowly through the tavern, making sure to step over the cats that littered the floor or ran by them. The tavern smelled of sour wine and old, stinky cheese and had a dull rundown look to it but it was warm and eventually, Jon and Eddie found themselves standing in front of the table in the corner of the tavern. The former Lannister soldiers stared up at Jon with disdain. 

“Lads, this is Jon Snow,” Eddie proclaimed.

“Yeah we know Eddie,” said one of the soldiers, who had a rough voice and a deep scar going from his bottom lip down his chin. “You killed the Dragon Queen, eh? Think that means we want to talk to ya?”

Jon turned to Eddie, “I’m gonna find my own table.”

“Nah come on,” Eddie stopped Jon with a hand. “Before we docked I told the boys what you did and what you told me happened in King’s Landing. They’re just being difficult.”

“Aye we’re being difficult,” said the scarred man. “You were a King, weren’t ya? What kind o’ king can’t control his men?”

Jon shook his head with disgust, then turned on the scarred man. “Have you ever led men before? Do you know what it’s like to command thousands? Do you have any idea how all that can crumble in the chaos of a battle? And look on hopelessly as they rape a city?”  Jon was shouting now. “Do you know what it’s like to watch dead men destroy your home and kill the people you love!? Do you know what it’s like to see somebody you care for become a monster!? Do you know what it’s like to murder someone you love! Do any of you!” The eerie silence that fell on the tavern when Jon finished speaking made him immediately feel uncomfortable.

“Nah, we don’t,” said another former soldier. He was skinny and had a long hooked nose, but he smiled and passed Jon a small cup full of ale. “I’m Keran, the scarred grouch you were talking to is Mott. That’s Ricker and Davis, and you know Eddie. Have a seat, m’lord.”

He grabbed the cup, and Jon slowly sat at the empty seat next Keran, Eddie took one besides Mott. Jon gazed over the soldiers, Mott, Keran, Eddie, Ricker and Davis. Though he was quiet, Mott never seemed to acknowledge Jon, and he soon found out that Mott was sent to the Night’s Watch because he would not accept Bran as his King. Ricker lost his right arm in King’s Landings destruction. Davis lost his daughter and had a terrible limp that prevented him from running or holding anything substantial like a shield up. Keran lost his family and all his friends who were soldiers, to the dragonfire. He did not want to be near King’s Landing because it brought him terrible memories. They all said they had no other skills other than knowing how to fight, they could not stop and become farmers, or herders or any of the sort, because they simply did not know how. Jon once again explained what happened during the attack, and what the actual plan was, though he felt like it was pointless.

“Me saying all this, it means nothing,” Jon said. “Nothing I say can change what happened, or make it… understandable. I just wish… I wish it never happened.”

“We all do,” Davis drawled. “But it happened. We gotta live with it. Hopefully, the Wall gives us some peace, eh?”

“Aye, I’m tired of fighting,” Jon looked to Mott, who did not at all seem to care for what Jon had said. Though Jon took solace in believing that the news Sansa and Varys had spread, of his true name and identity —  _Aegon Targaryen —_ had only seemed to be known by the Lords and Ladies of Westeros, and had not passed down to the common folk or soldiers. Not yet, at least. But then a sudden smash on the table jolted their attention to an old man stood, with a face leathered by the sun and a smell to him that made Jon reel back. The man’s clothes seemed so dirty that they looked to never had the grace of a wash and his hair was thin and oily, dangling before his old grey eyes.

“I’m Pynto, this is my place,” The man’s voice boomed louder than any others. “You ladies gonna by some more drinks?”

“How much can a silver stag get?” Jon asked.

“A goblet full of ale for each of you,” said Pynto.

“What about food?”

“Food? I gots food!” a small voice came from the entrance of the tavern and they all looked to see a young girl in an old, worn yellow doublet pushing a cart in front of her that was full of seafood. “Oysters, clams and cockles! A silver stag can get you… a lot!”

The girl pushed her cart further into the tavern, but Pynto turned on her. “Fuck off outta here, Taya. I ain’t give you permission to sell your stink in my tavern.”

“Oh, come on, Pynto! Don’t be a prick. I gotta get rid of this stuff before tomorrow. I’ll split what I earn.”

“Bah… Well alright, but I want sixty percent.”

“Done!” the girl moved towards the table. Jon sat at. “You boys wanted some food?” Jon studied the girl, she was maybe thirteen or fourteen, skinny and short. With black hair cut just below her ears. For some reason, this girl reminded Jon of Arya.

“You’d better start buying, or she won't shut up,” Pynto said with disdain. “Wish it were Blind Beth instead. At least she was easy to talk to.”

Jon shot the smelly old man a curious look, “Blind Beth?”

“Aye, she came in here often. Would keep to herself but was happy to listen to ya tales. She’s been gone for years though… never did find out what happened to her.”

 _“I was Cat of the Canals. I was a blind girl for a time. Blind Beth. Then I became Mercy.”_ The memory of Arya’s voice echoed through Jon’s mind, and now he knew why the girl before him, selling seafood, called Taya, reminded him of Arya.

“Well, you lot gonna buy anything or just gawk?” Taya prodded Eddie with a finger. “What about you? You got a face like a burnt up mutton chop, sooth it with some oysters?”

The entire table laughed, even Pynto. Eddie glared at Taya. “Ain’t you a good salesman,” he said sarcastically.

“I’m a sales _woman._ C’mon, this is the best in the city. I can hear your tummies grumbling already.”

“I’ll take it all,” Jon said, and he pulled out his remaining five silver stags, handed one to Pynto for the ale and laid out the four before Taya.

Taya cleared her throat. “I gotta be honest, but four silver stags might be too much for what I have left.”

“Then take what it cost, and keep the rest.” Jon had no use for his coins at the Wall.

Taya did not move, only gave Jon a bewildered look. “Who are you, m’lord?”

“Jon Snow,”

“How’d you know he was a lord?” Eddie asked.

“Cause he looks like one,” Taya replied coolly. “And he looks like he’s had years of trouble on his shoulders. You know there are stories going around about a King in the North, called Jon Snow. Saying he came back to life after being stabbed in the heart. That you?”

“Maybe,” Jon replied quickly. He hoped that would end the conversation, and if he was honest with himself, Taya had been right about the years of trouble weighing him down; he did not want to explore that further either.

Taya shrugged, “Well, either way, I’ll remember you, m’lord. ‘The Generous Jon Snow’” she lifted the crate of seafood from her cart and dumped it on the table. Snatched Jon’s four silver stags then sprinted out of the tavern with her cart as quick as a cat, with Pynto furiously chasing after her.

“You little fucker!” Pynto shouted. “Ya ‘sposed to split the COIN!”

“Gotta go, Pynto. Busy, busy!” Taya replied and then shot herself out of the door into Ragman’s Harbor.

Jon shared the seafood with the former soldiers, the crew of Talon and even with Pynto and as the night fell upon Braavos they drank their final ales of freedom before the next day would take them back to the seas and towards the Wall.

* * *

The voyage from Braavos to Eastwatch graced with calm seas and little in terms of activity, Jon mostly stayed below decks, only ever coming above to get air or to help the crew, though his help was rarely needed. Eastwatch by the Sea received him, though it was hardly a  warm welcome because there was nobody there, only destruction. Jon saw for the first time, ruin the Night King and his dragon had unleashed: a gaping hole in the Wall that Jon never thought could happen and the complete obliteration of the castle of Eastwatch. The Captain of the ship, Talon. Ordered the former Lannister soldiers to stay at Eastwatch, and he warned them that if they fled, then Lady Sansa would execute them. Jon, however, left Eastwatch quickly to ride for Castle Black, guided by the two Night’s Watchmen who took him from King’s Landing and became part of Talon’s crew, Myke and Rody. Jon didn’t recognize their faces, but on their journey to Castle Black, he found out that they had come from the Shadow Tower, which had been the Wall’s only manned castle on its western edge. When they received the order to retreat from the Wall, they fled to Winterfell and fought at the Battle of Winterfell against the dead.

“It was hell, m’lord,” Rody said one night when they camped by the ruins of Sable Hall. “I’ll never forget it… can’t ever forget it. I still see ‘em, in my dreams… those icy eyes, the sounds they made, the screams…”

“I know, trust me, I know. But we’re alive, we have to do our best to move on,” Jon said in a soothing voice.

But Rody shook his head. “What if I can’t move on, m’lord? What if it haunts me forever? What if they come back!?”

“They’re not coming back, Rody. The Night King is dead. My sister killed him herself. I saw his dragon and all the dead crumble to the ground, and so did you. They are not coming back.”

“Here, brother,” Myke sat next to Rody and put his cloak over the worrying man. “Let’s thank the gods for Arya Stark, eh? Because she killed ‘em. Lord Snow’s right, all those blue-eyed bastards are gone for good. If there is anyone who would know, it’d be him, eh?”

Later on, Jon found out that Myke and Rody were the only men from the Shadow Tower that survived. And only a skeleton crew remained at Castle Black, though calling it a skeleton crew was generous, for the entirety of  the one hundred leagues of the Wall, and it’s nineteen castles, ruined or otherwise, only seven men had manned it all. Jon included. The six surviving men of the Night’s Watch returned to Castle Black after the Long Night, simply because they had nowhere else to go. That had not the energy to run, nor the will. They returned to Castle Black because it was familiar and because they had sworn an oath and no one had removed that from them. Seven men along the Wall, whose numbers would be bolstered by the former Lannister soldiers, Eddie, Mott, Keran, Ricker and Davis, once they made their oaths to the Night’s Watch. 

Twelve men, for nineteen castles. There had been a time when a fact of that nature would have concerned Jon to his very bones, but no longer. Back then the Wall was a defence against the Wildlings, who were now friends of the North. Or a bulwark against the real enemy, the White Walkers, who were now extinct and no longer a threat. The Wall had been a defence of great importance, of whom most of the Lords of Westeros only considered it to be a glorified prison. Jon knew that today, and likely for the rest of history, that is all the Wall would be, a prison.

When they finally reached Castle Black, Tormund, the remaining Freefolk and Ghost all welcomed him. Once they settled, Jon and Tormund sat alone together in Castle Black’s main hall, with Ghost in the corner, gnawing at a bone.

“Yer sister, Sansa,” Tormund began after he chugged down some of his ale. “She sent a raven to back to Winterfell saying we can leave when we want, with a letter to give to the Night’s Watch allowing us safe passage. Ain’t many Crows here though, don’t think we’d need the letter, Ha!”

“When are you leaving?” Jon asked.

“Snows are dying down. We’ll be going north in a few days. Come with us, Jon!”

“I want to, but I’m a man of the Night’s Watch now… again.”

“Bah! You haven’t made yer oath yet. And who’s gonna stop ya going? There’s only six of the crows and hundreds of us Freefolk!”

“I can’t Tormund, Bran and Sansa made a deal. If the Unsullied find out—”

“Ah, fuck those cockless whores! My brothers and sisters, they’re yours too. They love you, Snow. Come with us.”

Before Jon could respond, Myke barged in through the door brushing off light snow from his shoulders. “Forgive me, Lord Snow. But there is a man that wants to speak to you, a lord of some sort. Don’t know who he is.”

Jon looked at Tormund. “You know who it is?”

“Yeh, he arrived just yesterday with some other men all wearing black. He said he was waiting for yer arrival. Then he kept to himself. Said he was here for the duty of _King Bran_ , and _Lady Sansa,_ or some horsecock. Said his name was Howland Reed.”

 _Lord Reed?_ The last Jon had heard was that he was still in King’s Landing, why would he be at the Wall and not back in Greywater Watch? And out of what duty for Sansa and Bran? “That’s all he said?” Jon asked Tormund.

“Aye, that’s all.”

“Where is he?” Jon focused this question to Myke.

“On the top of the Wall, m’lord.”

Jon put on his coat Sansa had made, belted on Longclaw in its scabbard and took the long lift up the Wall, the ride was slower than he remembered. He took the time to gaze at the vastness of the North and it’s melting snow that covered the land, and as he rode the lift he realised the Wall itself was weeping. It was above freezing, and winter felt like it was coming to an end. Once the lift reached the top, it did not take long to find Howland Reed, some men wearing all black that Jon did not recognize guided him to the Northern Lord, who stood in one of the open alcoves atop the Wall, staring down into the vastness of the lands beyond the Wall.

“My lord,” Jon said from behind Reed.

Lord Reed turned and smiled. “Jon! Good to see you, son.” He offered Jon his hand, and the two men shook briefly.

Jon stepped up beside Howland and joined him in his gaze, northward. “What brings you here, Lord Reed?”

“Well, I have never been to the Wall, Jon. Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about. It’s all beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is, but that’s not what I meant, my lord. Why are you here? Tormund said you spoke of some duty for Bran and Sansa, why? Why did you want to speak to me so urgently?”

Howland gave a short laugh. "You still talk like a king, Jon." then pulled out from inside his doublet, a small parchment letter. “This will probably explain a good deal.” He handed the parchment to Jon. Jon unfolded it eagerly and read its small writing:

_To the men of the Night’s Watch._

_By the authority of Bran the Broken, King of the Six Kingdoms, and Lady Sansa Stark, current de facto ruler of the independent North. For this day, until his death, Lord Howland Reed is named as the 999th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. All proceeding Lord Commanders will be chosen by vote, as per tradition. And the Night’s Watch will, as always, be impartial to the politics of Westeros._

_Written and signed, Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King._

_Signed, Bran the Broken, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

_Signed, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Lady Paramount and de facto ruler of the North._

The silence made Howland Reed smile. “You have questions I gather,”

“Aye,” Jon handed him back the parchment but did not hide his bewilderment. “Why did they make you Lord Commander?”

“They didn’t make me, Jon. I chose it. Due to the circumstances, Sansa and Bran worked together and decided they needed to be sure that the Wall would be properly governed. They knew it would pretty much have to be started from scratch, but they needed someone they trusted to help with that. So I offered.”

“Why?”

Howland sighed heavily. “Look at me Jon, I’m old. Got a crookback, can hardly fight. I sit in Greywater Watch so far away from everything, withering away and doing things that my daughter Meera can do far better. She will be in charge of Greywater Watch and the Neck, she will do a fine job. While I remain here, where I can do something constructive, help the North and Wall rebuild, and look out for you, Make your time here pleasant, for your father.”

Jon cutaway from Howland’s face, and looked northward. “Ned Stark, you mean.”

“He was more your father than Rhaegar Targaryen ever was or would have been, your sisters know it. And so do you.”

Jon never knew what Rhaegar Targaryen looked like he only pictured a tall man with silver-white hair like Daenerys’. But he had a better image of his mother, Lyanna Stark, thanks to her statue in crypts of Winterfell. “Did you know my mother?”

Howland smiled warmly. “Aye, I knew Lyanna.”

“What was she like?”

“Beautiful, caring, lovely. She looked a lot like Arya, wild like her too. And the both of them, great swordsmen and great horse riders. They rode like Northmen.”

Jon smiled too.

“I spoke to Arya before I left King’s Landing,” Howland continued. “She sends her best wishes, and she misses you, she didn’t say that, but it was plain to see.”

“I miss her too… is she well?” Jon asked with fervency.

“Aye, she was, healthy and fit. Right now she is likely on her journey west, for new, strange shores.”

“Aye,” Jon continued to stare north, but his mind found itself wandering of Arya, manning the helm of a ship, sailing with the sun on her back. He pictured a taller version of her, with longer hair, but with Arya's deep dark eyes, thick eyebrows, long face and her cute smile and giggling laugh. And Jon wondered if that’s what Lyanna Stark would have looked like. The pair stood in silence, gazing out into the vastness of snow, before Jon cleared his throat and spoke. “You have orders for me, Lord Commander?”

“In fact I do. The men that came with me, in actuality came from King’s Landing. Criminals and broken men who will swear their oath to the Watch. This afternoon I will assign them to their duties, be it the Rangers, the Stewards, or the Builders, then tonight they will make their oaths. As will you.”

“What are you gonna make me, a Steward?” Jon said jokingly. “Or a Builder this time? Can’t say I’ve ever built anything.”

“I was thinking a Ranger. First Ranger in fact.”

Jon turned on Lord Reed quickly, with a look that clearly amused the Lord Commander. “Lord?”

Howland laughed. “I think you’ve earned First Ranger, you are the most experienced of us all. Once that is all done, I will head to Eastwatch by the Sea with some men and swear in those Lannister men in, and we will begin rebuilding Castle Eastwatch and barricading the hole in the wall. But to your original question of orders, I do have a task for you and only you.”

“Anything, lord.”

“Don’t be so eager… Once you are sworn in, you will guide the Wildlings beyond the Wall and help them find a new home.”

Jon’s mind raced. “Why, my lord? The Freefolk can find their own way.”

“It was not my decision. King Bran and Lady Sansa requested it. They decided the Wildlings should have a guide, they figured it was the least we could do and you know the lands beyond the Wall better than anyone here. Though, I believe it is in fact because they know that you enjoy the company of the Wildlings; your brother and sister want you to be as happy as you can be. But you must return to the Wall, they have given you a year.”

He scrutinized his thoughts and Jon could picture Bran and Sansa talking to Reed, making this entire plan. And he smiled because they were right. Jon did enjoy the company of the Freefolk, even if it were in an icy wasteland. But it was only for a year, until what? Jon perused his mind further, tonight he would be swearing another oath to the Watch, an oath he must keep. But he did not feel at home here, not since his own brothers murdered him. The voyage from Braavos to Eastwatch by the Sea was kind, the former Lannister soldiers no longer glared at him and they often talked, even Mott seemed more friendly. Even still, Jon felt like he would never be welcome in this place, this prison. And he knew he could never trust any of the men, no matter what oaths they swear.

“A year? To find the Freefolk a home, and return to Castle Black?” Jon asked solemnly.

“Aye,” Reed answered.

“What happens if I don’t return?”

“Your fate would be out of my hands, Jon. But as the North is independent now, the Wall falls under the eye of whoever rules the North. Should you not return, your fate and any labels put to your name, would be decided by the King, or Queen in the North.”

“Sansa,” Jon muttered.

“Perhaps, if the Lords of the North so choose her as their queen. You should go and speak to Tormund, let him know you will be joining the Wildlings.”

“Aye, thank you, my lord,” Jon turned from the alcove and began to walk away from his Lord Commander.

“Jon,” Howland called before Jon went out of earshot, the sudden exclaim made Jon stop in his tracks, and he turned back to face Lord Reed. “I know what you have done, what you have sacrificed, son. So do Sansa and Arya, and Bran. And more beyond them. Without you, the White Walkers would have swept through Westeros. And without you, it would have been Daenerys Targaryen who did it instead. You did the right thing.”

Jon shook his head slowly. “If that’s true, then why do I feel so hollow? Why does nothing feel normal, or… right?”

“Nothing is normal in our world, Jon. You know this. Making a sacrifice as you have to protect the realm, to protect your sisters, the people you love… will always pierce you with hollowness. Because deep down you believe that Daenerys might have been saved, you believe that if things were different, if you tried for just a little longer, that she might have seen what you did, and she might have been a good queen and stayed the women that you fell in love with. But you will never know if that could have truly been, and that haunts you.”

Jon stared at the icy floor of the Wall, unable to speak, unwilling. Howland walked up to Jon and put a hand on his shoulder, Jon looked up to the old man, with his thin grey hair, and light green eyes and he gave Jon a warm smile.

Howland gripped Jon’s shoulder firmly and continued speaking. “Doing something that others, like me, consider to be ‘right,'  yet you cannot fathom as ‘right,’ is often met with regret, and thoughts of ‘what if?’ That is just human nature. With the burdens you have, nothing will ever feel truly right to you, but in ten years, when the summer sun glows on us again, you may reconsider, the ‘what if.'”

“So, all I can do is live with it, and move on…” Jon stated.

“Aye, it is basic, and it isn’t heartwarming. But that’s all any of us can do. Though, there is one thing you should always remember, that _will_ warm your heart… Sansa, Arya and Bran all love you, and they know what you've done for them, for realm. And Ned and Catelyn Stark would be proud of you. Take that with you, on your ride north.”

* * *

The weirwood tree beyond the Wall, that Jon had sworn to once, many years ago. Still stood, awaiting his new oath. And on that night, he swore again, to the Night’s Watch, “ _I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”_ Jon hoped that should death break his oath again, he would not return to this world and instead remain in the nothingness. " _Nothing is nothing…"_ On the dawn of the new day, as a member of the Night’s Watch and First Ranger, Jon led the men, women and children of the Freefolk through the Wall and into the vast lands of icy forests, white snow and freezing winds. Though as he rode on his destrier, with Ghost padding along on one side, and Tormund mounted on the other, Jon spotted a glimmer of spring, shooting through the melting snow and the swarm of memories of days gone, flooded through him… 

_"It's not easy to see something that has never been before…"_

_"Sansa killed Varys as much as I did.”_

_“A good world…”_

_“This is victory for her."_

_"How do you know? How do you know what's good?”_

_“Love is the death of duty.”_

_“Because I know what is good… and so do you… You do, you’ve always known.”_

_“Sometimes, duty is the death of love.”_

_“What about everyone else? All the other people who think they know what’s good?”_

_“Sansa and Arya wanted you freed…”_

_“They don’t get to choose.”_

_“She knows you are Jon, who you really are…"_

_"All right then. Let it be fear."_

_“...You’ll always be a threat to her.”_

_“I wish there was another way.”_

_“What’s west of Westeros?”_

_“Can you forgive me?”_

_“That’s where I’m going…"_

_"The North is free because of you."_

_“I’m going to miss you.”_

_“Sansa can have her sewing needles...”_

_“You’ve got your Needle?”_

_“I’ve got a Needle of my own…”_

_“Right here…”_

_“But they lost their King…”_

_“I’m not a Stark…”_

_"Ned Stark's daughter will speak for them…"_

_“I don’t care if he’s a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood flows through his veins!”_

_“You are to me."_

_"She's the best they could ask for…"_

_“He’s my king, from this day, until his last day!”_

_"I will follow Jon Snow, he said. The King in the North."_

_“He is the White Wolf!”_

_“Do you have any faith in me at all?”_

_“You're just as much Ned Stark’s child as any of us.”_

_“You know I do.”_

_“You were right where you needed to be.”_

_“What is honour, compared to a woman’s love? And what is duty, compared to a newborn son in your arms?”_

_“The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother, hmm?”_

_"You're Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name…"_

_“You're my brother, not my half-brother or my bastard brother… my brother.”_


	21. The Red Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From King's Landing to Winterfell. From a Lady to a Queen. Farewells are said, the future is set and truths are unveiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very big chapter for one of my favourite characters. I hope its endearing enough to read the whole thing. I really pleased with it.

_"The king is dead, long live the queen"_

_"You will be queen, it’s what you always wanted, no? And what did it cost?”_

_More than you know, Cersei._ The dawn rose over Blackwater Bay while she stood tall, in the godswood of the Red Keep, one of the few places that had remained untouched from the Dragon Queen's burning. With that dawning sun, came the scent of morning. A fresh redolence of rising dew and opulent purity that arrived with the buzz of bird song and whispering trees. This fragrance had perforated across the city, one that had slowly replaced the foul odour of death and charred bodies that gripped the capital for too long. Though this place was no longer the Capital for the North, that was now Winterfell. Sansa's home that had suffered as much as her family had, a haven she would return to come the noon, and she could not be more eager to leave King's Landing and relish once more in the white snows and grey walls of her home. She only wished Arya and Jon were with her, and even Bran. But Arya had her own wishes, and Jon had to face the consequences for what he did. Though if it were up to Sansa, she would have freed him in an instant, he saved the world from a tyrant, and he was her brother and King. But war was at risk again, and none could chance that, so it was Bran who decided Jon's fate and prevented war. Brandon Stark was now King of the Six Kingdoms, and Sansa smirked, finally understanding why he came all this way, perhaps her little brother could see the future. Whatever the case, the Six Kingdoms would be safe under his eye with all his knowledge and wisdom, though a robust Small Council would help, Sansa hoped that Tyrion had learned from his mistakes so that her little brother would be as safe as he could be, here in the putrid city.

Sansa was not to leave alone though — even with Gendry and the Stormlanders gone and most of the Northern Lords already on their way back North, or already there at this point — Sansa would be returning north with her men, and Lord Cerwyn and his men. They would be joined for half of the journey, by Robin Arryn with the remaining Knight's of the Vale, and Edmure Tully and the Riverlanders until they would go their separate ways, at the Inn at the Crossroads. She would also have the company of a new face, a young face: the Dornish common girl, Estyr. A girl Arya had taken a surprising liking to, though Sansa knew the girl was not truly a commoner, there was more to her than she let on. Sansa had her mind on what that truth was, and she would find out if she were right, eventually.

With the morning came a raven from Castle Black, a letter tied to its legs, addressed to the King, and Sansa. Bran had already received the news and Sansa's captain of the guard, Aberdale, had been the one to retrieve the letter from the Tower of the Hand, at Sansa's request. And so she stood, the stump of the weirwood tree beside her, the light of the dawn basking her face; she read the letter once more.

_King Bran, Lady Sansa._

_Jon Snow has sworn himself to the Night's Watch and has departed from Castle Black to escort the Wildlings to a new home, as you requested._

_Howland Reed, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch._

Sansa hoped that if she reread it, the words would change: _Jon Snow has arrived at Winterfell_... but they never did. She did not want Jon gone, but there was no avoiding it, so instead, she hoped he would enjoy his time with the Freefolk until he returned to the Wall... if he ever did. _"And what did it cost?"_

Sansa folded the parchment and passed it to Aberdale, who stood behind her. "Do we have any ravens left in our camp, Captain?"

"Two I believe, m'lady."

"Have word written to Castle Black, for Lord Commander Reed. Tell him I wish to know, immediately, when Jon returns. I, before anyone else."

"Ya think he'll return? Can't blame 'im if he don't."

Sansa glared over her shoulder to her captain. "Get to it, Aberdale."

"At once, m'lady." Aberdale spun and made his way up the steps leading to the keep, passing by Tyrion and Brienne who made a slow descent toward the weirwood stump, Tyrion was eagerly chatting all the while. Finally, the pair came to Sansa's level, and she spun about to face them.

"Lady Sansa, I was just telling Brienne that the White Sword Tower has survived the destruction. Well, mostly anyway," said Tyrion with a smile.

"That's good to hear," Sansa lied. She could not care less if the Red Keep had fallen to the ground.

"I would like to see it, my lord," announced Brienne. "And the White Book, if I may?"

"Of course, Ser Brienne!"

Brienne smiled at the dwarf, then put her attention to Sansa. "Would that be all, my lady?"

"There is one more thing, Ser," said Sansa. She paced forward and offered kind eyes to Brienne. "Ser Podrick is by Bran's side, yes?"

"He is."

"Good. I have had talks with my brother. While there will be changes, traditions are still important. And while I have no interest in the customs or politics of the Six Kingdoms, I still want my little brother to be safe. So we believe that the re-establishment of the Kingsguard is important and that Podrick is well suited to that role, do you agree?"

Brienne smiled wide. "He is, my lady."

"Pod should know that the Kingsguard will remain celibate," Tyrion interjected, then grinned. "The whores will go begging from Dorne to the Wall."

"Ignore him," cut in Sansa. "The Kingsguard will retain seven knights, as it did before, though Podrick will not command them. That role requires someone with more experience, someone with the skill and knowledge to lead. Someone honourable and trustworthy beyond anyone else. Someone perhaps that travelled all of Westeros, to keep an oath to a mother. And fulfilled that oath without any expectation of fame, or gold or glory."

Ser Brienne stood silent for a moment, eyes wide. Sansa waited patiently for the knight to process what had been said. "My lady," Brienne finally spoke. "You want me as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?"

"No. I would rather you stayed by my side. But Bran needs you, and we could not find anyone else better suited to protect him and find others, like you and Podrick, who are worthy of filling the Kingsguard's ranks. Ser Brienne, from this moment, I remove you from the oath you swore to my mother, and I remove you from the oath you swore to me. You are a free knight. This freedom will remain should you decline the position of Lord Commander, the choice is yours."

Another beat of silence. Though the conviction that came to Brienne's face revealed that she had already made her decision. "I've never been one for a 'free knight.' Always wanted to serve a lord or lady that was good and worthy. I received that when I swore to Lady Catelyn, and I got it again with serving you, Lady Sansa. I've never been more proud than I was by your side, and I would gladly swear the Kingsguard's oath and serve King Bran."

Brienne went to kneel, but Sansa stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. "Save that for your king." Sansa felt her eyes burden, heavy with sadness. "Brienne, there has never been a more honourable and just knight." The smile that came about Brienne's face spoke more than any words could, and it was joined by a swell of pride that filled Sansa's heart. Though that quickly departed when Brienne left, ascending up the stairs from the godswood. Sansa realised the Knight of Tarth was yet another person leaving her life. She felt lonelier with each pass of the sun's clock. She quickly turned back to face Blackwater Bay, willfully hiding her sadness from Tyrion. Though unsuccessfully.

"I know it is difficult to lose her," Tyrion began. "But Ser Brienne is a great boon to Bran, and she can do more good in King's Landing than she could in the North. Besides, with the respect I've seen the Northern Lords give you, you won't need her protection." Sansa remained silent, and Tyrion took that to step beside her, joining her in a gaze out to the eastern sea. Then he reached inside his tunic and pulled at a worn and heavily folded piece of thick parchment. "The schematics you asked for, my lady."

Sansa grabbed the parchment quickly and stuffed it beneath her breastplate. "Thank you."

"They weren't very useful, in the end."

"I will need every advantage should it return."

"You think he will?" Tyrion asked with a high pitched tone.

"You can never be too safe," Sansa replied seriously.

"Mhmm," Tyrion agreed. "Speaking of safe… You told me once that you came to the godswood because it was a place where people wouldn't talk to you."

Sansa pouted but did not look to Tyrion. "That was a long time ago."

"True. And a lot has happened since. Much has changed. Looking out to the calmness of the Blackwater, you could almost forget it all."

"Almost."

Sansa heard the dirt shift, as Tyrion turned on her. "This is the first time we've talked in private since Winterfell," he said. "A lot has changed, even since then. Such as a city burning. Or that I didn't have a bone to pick with you when we were in Winterfell."

 _There it is_ , Sansa mused. "I know, Tyrion."

"You used me, Sansa."

"I gave you information. What you chose to do with it was up to you."

"You knew I would tell Varys. You knew he had doubts about Daenerys!"

"You had doubts to, and whose fault was that?" Sansa spun on Tyrion, she was not about to be blamed for another's actions. "It is not my fault for who you chose to speak to. Nor is it my fault that Daenerys' advisers were losing faith in her and that she had little trust in them. Something she admitted to me. I simply took advantage of these facts."

"Spoken like a true player of the game," Tyrion scoffed, though there did seem the smallest semblance of pride in his tone. "You sure you want to go back north? You would do great here."

"No, thank you. I have responsibilities. And work to do."

"Yes, as do we all," a heavy sigh came from the dwarf. "Daenerys said it best. You trusted me to spread the word of Jon's true heritage."

"And my trust was well placed."

"I guess that was a compliment. Sansa… why didn't you trust her?"

"You asked me this after what she did?"

"You couldn't have known Daenerys would do this. What was it about her that made you not trust her from the outset?"

It was Sansa's turn to give a heavy sigh. “What would you do if your people had fought and suffered for years for their homes and their independence, and then someone came to take that away, under the guise of a saviour? A saviour whose family had tormented your own and much of your country. A saviour who came to your lands with armies of killers, rapists and dragons."

"I would be grateful those armies fought to defend my home. I would be thankful Daenerys turned North to help me defeat the White Walkers."

"Mhmm," Sansa groaned. "And we were grateful. And I was thankful to Daenerys. Until I learned that the only reason she came North was because of the love she had for Jon. Given time, that love that would have turned to disaster with her knowledge of Jon's truth."

A confused look marked Tyrion's scared face. "You don't know that for sure, Sansa. Love has… power."

Sansa glared. "The power to destroy, from what I’ve seen. Power is power, Tyrion. Jon would always be a threat in Daenerys' eyes. I know what hunger for power looks like. I saw it in Cersei. I saw it in Littlefinger, in Ramsay. Tywin. Joffrey. I saw it in Daenerys too. What she cared most about was power and that ugly throne, and Jon stood between that. People would have followed him regardless if he wanted it or not, then what would Daenerys do? Hmm? What if she had become queen, Tyrion? How long until she would turn on Jon? On you? How long until the paranoia and madness her father had, set in with her? Then what would happen if someone disrespected her? Didn't kneel? What if some other Lord of Westeros pushed her just a bit too much? How many other people would burn?"

Heavy eyes fell on Tyrion, as he looked back at the ground. "Well, we'll never know."

"Good. Love killed Robb, trust killed my father. Love and trust would have destroyed Jon, and more. I could not let that happen. Daenerys stopped at nothing to get the Iron Throne, and she would have burned the whole country to keep it."

Tyrion turned back to face the Blackwater. "I wanted to know what was going through your mind back in Winterfell. I got my answer. And I agree, more or less. Though, I didn't always see that. Daenerys was the greatest threat to the realm and I thought she would be a good queen. I didn't see what you did, not until it was too late."

"It wasn't too late. You convinced Jon."

"It could have been different."

" _Could_ have. It wasn't. What happened, happened." Sansa watched, as Tyrion starred toward the sea. "But... despite saying that, it would be easier to move on if something in the past was forgiven..."

Tyrion eyed her. "You want me to forgive you, for using me? Afraid I will pull a Jon?"

Sansa shuddered, though Jon hugged her fiercely before he left and she knew the love they had for each other still existed. He did not forgive her for what she had done. And that hurt her still. She swallowed and looked to Tyrion. "No... but I would like to be able to call you a friend."

He smiled. "And I, you. Fear not, I have no ill will, Sansa. In fact, I have even more respect for you, given the way you played the _great game_. I forgive you."

Sansa smiled, and silence fell. The former husband and wife, stood side by side, staring out in the Blackwater. Watching its dark waves rock vessels coming into port. Trader ships from the Free Cities. A cog from the Stormlands carrying timber. A fishing vessel from the Vale. The sight once again drew Sansa's mind to Arya. Images came to her of her little sister operating the helm of her grey sailed direwolf ship, grinning from ear to ear as she basked in the winds of the vast sea. However, the thought of Arya cruising further and further away brought fear to Sansa. "Will Arya be arriving at the Targaryen Islands soon?" she asked with a solemn tone.

"If the seas were kind, yes," answered Tyrion. "Ser Davos has said as much. And he's given no reason to believe the seas weren't kind."

"That's good… What do we know of the west?"

"Precious little, Sansa."

"I worry for Arya. They say Elissa Farman never returned from her voyage west…”

"Many worry about her. But Arya is a great woman, and she is not Elissa Farman. You know the skills your sister has, if anyone were to return, it would be her," Tyrion must have seen the uncertainty in Sansa's face, as he grabbed her hand gently and the pair faced each other again. "Sansa, it does no good to grieve for her departure, and whatever fate may come. Remember her for what she did and who she is. Live for her memory, should she return or not… the same goes for Jon."

Sansa nodded slowly. "I'll try…”

Tyrion caressed her hand kindly, then let it go. "Now, is there anything else I may do for you before you leave?”

"Yes, actually. Before the War of the Five Kings, you designed a specific saddle for Bran to use with his crippled legs. Do you remember it?"

"I do, yes."

"Do you think you could draw up another? This time one for an adult."

"Hmm, it shouldn't be too hard. Though the proper sizing and measurements would need to be done to suit the rider and horse. Why do you ask?"

"Ser Roland Waynwood had his legs crushed in the battle with the Dothraki."

Tyrion shook his head with dismay. "Terrible thing. Why do you feel the need to amend this?"

"He lost his father because of me. I owe him a debt."

"That is admirable of you. You will, however, lose more men in the future, I am sure. Will you do admirable things for their surviving family members? People will come to expect it, and if you don't…”

"I'll give them food and shelter as any ruler ought to, and I'll do whatever else I am able. If that's not enough… well I cannot control what people think, I can only hope to change it."

Tyrion's face grimaced with thought, then he breathed lightly. "Very well. I will draw up the plans before midday."

"Thank you, Tyrion. What do I owe you?" Sansa said with a smile.

Tyrion grinned slyly. "Continued correspondence with a friend, would be nice. When you go back north, don't be a stranger. It would be good to receive a friendly raven from Winterfell and have someone else to talk to outside of this piss hole of a city."

Sansa chuckled. "Of course." Her small smile faded as she deliberated on Tyrion's scarred and tired face. It was misshapen, weathered and shared little in common with his brother and sister. But he had their unmistakable golden hair, and as she studied further, she realised Tyrion had his sister's eyes. "We never talked about Cersei," said Sansa.

"Should we have?" Tyrion responded with a dejected gaze.

"She tormented both of us."

"She tormented me far longer than you. But it isn't a competition… How did you feel, seeing her again?"

"I don't know… I never anticipated her to live. And to see her again… I thought it would be cathartic, to speak to her, and to watch her die. But it didn't feel like that, it wasn't the same as watching Ramsay Bolton or Littlefinger die, it was…”

"Like putting down a sick animal," Tyrion offered.

"Yes. When she cried as she bled, it was not what I expected…”

"Revenge can bring sorrow.”

“I wouldn’t call it revenge… Near the end, when Cersei was on her knees crying, I wanted to stop Grey Worm from killing her, try and bargain for her life, send her into exile…”

“But you didn’t.”

“No…”

Tyrion looked up her thoughtfully. “If you saw Daenerys on her knees, crying, begging for her life… would you have thought the same way? Show mercy, bargain for her life?”

“Daenerys wouldn't have gone that low,” Sansa replied with confidence.

“A compliment from you to Daenerys. Rare. Well, whatever could have happened and though Cersei may have been cruel, she was like the rest of us. Human."

Sansa nodded. “What did she say to you, when you saw her?”

“Nothing that I hadn’t heard before,” Tyrion said gravely. “It’s strange, despite the hatred we had for each other. She was still my sister. Under different circumstances, I would have like to have seen her flee to Essos, be with Jaime and their child. I think they would have truly been happy.”

“They might have been.”

“Perhaps. Another thing we will never know. There were times I wanted to kill her. Now that she is dead… I…”

Sansa saw the wetness come to Tyrion’s eyes. “Try not to dwell on Cersei, Tyrion.”

He smiled and nodded. “Same to you, Sansa. I know that Cersei will linger long in your mind.”

 Sansa gazed at the rising sun. "She will."

_"Please, I don't want to die."_

* * *

Noon arrived, and the sun was high, piercing through thin white clouds. Sansa had marshalled her remaining Northmen at the Gate of the Gods, ready for the journey on the Kingsroad. Though this gate was fit for no gods, for it was utterly destroyed by the Dragon Queen. Its rubble had mostly cleared; however, no progress on its rebuilding had begun, all that remained was a considerable gap in the already crumbled walls of King's Landing. Sansa stood beside Jorge, Winterfell's Master of Horse as he fit and tightened the saddle on a beautiful white mare that was to be Sansa's. This palfrey was Arya's, the horse that took her from the burning city and that had served her well until she left. Arya bequeathed the horse to Sansa, leaving the mare in a place she knew Northmen would find it. In their small camp just outside the city. With the horse, was a note, which said:

_Sansa._

_I would say I'm sorry for leaving without a goodbye, but I'm not really, you know how bad I am with goodbyes, with people. The mare I have parted from, you know her. She is wild, beautiful and strong-willed, but I cannot take her across the sea. So she is yours now. I know she will have a much better life in Winterfell._

_I wish you good fortune, sister. Farewell._

_Arya._

The contents of the letter were not all true. As Sansa had figured Arya would try to sneak away. She knew Arya's ship had been finished and that her sister would leave as soon as possible. Sansa had planned for people to be at the docks, so Arya was forced to say her goodbyes, whether she liked it or not and Sansa knew that was best. Still, when a Northern soldier came to her with Arya's white mare, and the farewell letter in tow — a mere half a day after Arya had left —  Sansa read it several times over and kept it close to her at all times. Even with Arya's curt words, it was a goodbye that Sansa could read again and again, and again. _I wish you good fortune, sister. Farewell._

"All done, m'lady," Jorge said, just after tightening a final strap.

"Thank you, Jorge," Sansa replied.

"She's a fine mare. Did Lady Arya give 'er a name?"

"No, she didn't."

"Ahh, well, we should give 'er a name that suits her beautiful white coat." Jorge patted the mare's long mane. "What about, _Whitefang_? Or _Ghost_ , like Lord Jon’s direwolf."

"Those are all very nice names. Though I don't know if they suit her."

"Her coat is like snow," blurted a little voice. Sansa and Jorge spun to face Estyr, standing behind them.

"What's a lil' Dornish girl know what snow looks like?" Jorge asked.

Estyr rolled her eyes. "It's snowed a few times in King's Landing during winter."

"Pah! Ain't nothing like Northern snows."

"Jorge is right," Sansa added with a smirk.

"I know what snow looks like," Estyr said contemptuously. "You should call Arya's horse _Snowy_ , or _Winter_ , or something like that because her coat is like snow. Don't name her _Whitefang_ , That's stupid."

"That ain't stupid! That's a strong name!" Jorge roared.

"It doesn't even make sense!" Estyr shot back. "It's a horse, they don't have fangs."

"She's right, Jorge," Sansa smirked again, this time at the Master of Horse.

He huffed and dropped his shoulders. "Well, it ain't no matter to me. It's your horse, Lady Sansa. But this one," Jorge pointed a sharp finger at Estyr. "She oughta learn some respect. She ain't no lady."

" _Respect_?" Estyr blurted incredulously. 

"Quiet," Sansa cut in. "Go and make sure you have everything you need."

"I do—"

"Do it again."

"Yes, _Lady Sansa_ ," Estyr gave them both an exaggerated bow, then stuck her tongue out at Jorge, before running off towards her horse that had a glistening chestnut coat and an attitude to match Estyr's. Sansa joined Jorge in running her hand down the white mare's long neck, while she thought on Estyr's words. Sansa did like _Winter_ for a name, though she believed Arya's mare was far too beautiful for such a singular name, there needed to be something to match the wild beauty of this horse.

"Lady Sansa, what's the reason we bringing a southern common girl north?" asked Jorge suddenly.

"Reasons you need not concern yourself with, Jorge," Sansa answered.

"Aye, true. Forgive me, my lady."

"The fuck you giving her this for?" came a brusque voice. Sansa followed its sound and discerned that it originated from a tall man with a wispy beard, wearing expensive clothes with a cape that flowed behind him. Sansa believed the cape did not accommodate him, at all. Walking with him, was Tyrion, Ser Davos, Ser Brienne and Bran being pushed along King's Landing's main road by Ser Podrick.

"I'd make much better use out of this," the tall man finished, Sansa figured he was talking about the elegant looking sword and scabbard he held in his hands. As they all came closer, Sansa began to recognised the tall man holding the sword. 

"You've received enough," Tyrion replied to the tall man, as he and the others stopped just in front of Sansa. "Lady Sansa, you may not remember him, but this is—"

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater," Sansa stated.

"Lord Blackwater now," Bronn said. "Actually, Lord—"

"Paramount?" again, Sansa interrupted. "Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach?"

"Oh, you told you?" Tyrion asked.

"Certain people. Back in Winterfell."

Tyrion gaped. "Winterfell? How did you..."

"Do you think I learned so little in my time in this awful city? Do you think people of note come into my kingdom without me knowing about it?"

"You heard about my lil' meeting with the Lannister golden girls?" Bronn asked.

"I was told about it, as it was happening."

Bronn looked to Tyrion with a humorous look. "What is with these Stark girls, eh?" He peered back at Sansa, wearing an ugly smirk. "Well, it seems you don't know all, m'lady. I'm Master of Coin too."

Sansa glared between Tyrion and Bran who sat beside him. "You made a sellsword your Master of Coin?" Neither of them responded.

" _Former_ sellsword," Bronn quipped. "I might not be able to count, but I know what's valuable."

Sansa scoffed at Bronn. "Whores and swords?"

"And good wine. Speaking of which, who pissed in yours?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry if I was rude to you Lord Bronn." Sansa said, giving a false appearance of bereavement.  "You know how it is at this time in a woman's life, the menopause kicking in, the hot flushes, the mood swings…"

Bronn repelled back and his face scrunched with disgust. "I didn't need to hear that, princess."

“So easy to squirm,” Sansa gestured languidly. "Lord Bronn, if you cannot discern basic sarcasm, I truly fear for the Reach."

"Thank a wet fart you got all the basics down, m'lady. You got any other words of wisdom?"

"Certainly. There are many basic concepts and idioms a lord should consider." Sansa shaped thin lips, glared at Bronn and made her tone serious. "Don't play with fire, for example."

Bronn grinned and breathed a short chuckle, he glanced down at Tyrion and Tyrion's face held bewilderment, before he breathed a dismayed sigh.

"Enough please," Tyrion said, tirelessly. "For all of Bronn's many faults, he is honest, and he is willing to learn. This is not what we came for anyway." He stole the sheathed sword out of Bronn's hands. "Lady Sansa, I have a gift for you. This was taken from the Unsullied before they left." Tyrion held the blade in clear view and drew it halfway out of its scabbard. Its hilt was of gold filigree, its crossguard in the shape of a stag's head with a large ruby embedded into it. And its blade was dark steel, with the familiar ripple, that all Valyrian steel swords have. It was Widow's Wail.

"Tyrion... This was your brothers." Sansa said quietly.

"Made from your family sword, Ice," Tyrion responded. "Brienne has Oathkeeper, you should take Widow's Wail. Though, I wouldn't begrudge you if you decide to rename it…”

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Hang it up in your hall." Bronn offered. "Wear it on ya waist. Fuck, I'll take it if neither of you wants it."

She ignored him but took the Valyrian sword in her hands. Despite hearing that Valyrian steel was lightweight, this sword felt heavy, heavier than Needle. Widow's Wail had a history, once the sword of Joffrey Baratheon which he used to torment Sansa with threats against her family. Only, despite Joffrey's words, the sword never harmed any of the Starks. It instead did the opposite, it defended them, and their home. Widow's Wail and Oathkeeper. Two swords from one. Defended their home in the hands of honourable, southern knights. She enjoyed all the irony. And now would Sansa take it to keep defending the North, while Oathkeeper defended the south? Though still slightly reluctant, she believed this sword could come in handy in the future.

"Jon and Arya have Valyrian swords, why not you," Tyrion stated, breaking Sansa's thought process.

"I'm not a warrior," she replied.

"Neither was Joffrey. Yet you have fare more courage than he ever did. Take the sword, Sansa."

 She closed the blade into its scabbard and called to Jorge. "Strap this to my saddle," she said when Jorge arrived. He took Widow's Wail from her and returned to her saddle. Sansa turned back. "Thank you, Tyrion."

"You're welcome. Sansa I—"

"Lady Sansa," from behind them, Lord Cerwyn approached. "Forgive my interruption. The Vale and the Riverlanders have begun their journey, and all my men are all set and ready to leave. They are eager to return home."

"As am I, let's go," she replied, then faced Bran to say her farewells, but when she looked him over, she noticed his apparel. A dark blue tunic, elegantly made with fine needlework, which Sansa admired. But all over the tunic was exquisite embroidery of ravens. Not wolves. "Ravens?” she asked Bran.

"I am the Three-Eyed Raven," Bran replied.

"You are _King_ Brandon Stark," object Sansa.

"King Bran the Broken," Tyrion corrected. 

"Rolls of the tongue a bit better than 'King Three-Eyed Raven,' eh?" Bronn cracked. Though nobody replied to it.

Sansa was not all happy to see the wolf sigil replaced by a raven, and that Bran still no longer considered himself 'Bran'. She had lost her little brother to the south. But in truth, she lost him a long, long time ago. _"And what did it cost, little dove?"_

Sansa smiled weakly. "Goodbye, Your Grace." 

"This is not farewell forever. We will see each other again," Bran returned with half a smile.

"Under favourable circumstances, I hope."

"That is yet to be seen."

Sansa narrowed her blue eyes. "Is there something I need to know?"

"You know what the future holds, as much as I do."

"I doubt that little brother," Sansa bent over and hugged Bran and as their faces came near, she whispered. "Estyr is the daughter of the Prince of Dorne, and you had Arya find her, train her, and pass her to me to keep her far away from would-be killers. Am I right? I harbour this princess for Arya's sake, but The North is independent I will not involve it in southern schemes."

They parted from the embrace but kept their faces close, and Bran spoke quietly. "There is far more to this than you realise."

"Then tell me, Bran."

"When I know the time is right, I will. The North is independent, but for there to be peace in your kingdom, and mine, you and the North must play a part."

"I will not let my countrymen suffer under any more southern games."

Bran smiled thinly. "They won't be southern games. They will be your games."

As it were, Bran’s words offered little comfort, though Sansa relished that he was safe. And should there be more games, she would be at the forefront, not a pawn. Farewells were said and shared. However, they did not feel as permanent as they did when Sansa said goodbye to Arya. Podrick and Brienne gave their respect for their time serving Sansa. Davos offered his admiration and Bronn offered no goodbye, simply a witless smirk. All the while, Sansa noticed as Lord Cerwyn looked on impatiently. In the end, he left to wait with the mass of Northmen just outside the ruined gates. Estyr, Aberdale, along with a handful of guardsmen patiently sat on their mounts just near Sansa. She would sate their patience, for she mounted Arya's white mare, eager to expedite from this ruined town. Sansa grabbed the reigns and made to kick her heels and begin the long ride North, until she was stopped by a voice.

"Sansa," said Tyrion. He waddled towards her, alone and with a concerned look on his face.

"Yes?" Sansa replied.

"I need to ask you about Jon."

"Right now, when I'm just about to leave? Couldn't have asked me earlier? Such as any time for the last several weeks that I've been staying here?"

"I was hoping my king would bring this up, but he didn't."

Sansa breathed hard. "It is noon, and the sun is yawning. I wish to leave before it sets."

Tyrion stepped closer, glanced toward Sansa’s guard and Estyr, then back at Sansa. "When all is said and done. What are your plans with Jon?"

"What are you asking?" Sansa demanded with a thick frown.

"I am asking if you intend to pardon Jon and relinquish his oath to the Night's Watch."

"What the North does, is the North's business, Lord Hand."

"Sansa, you made a deal. If you break that and the Unsullied find out—"

"I know what would happen. Besides, Jon has gone beyond the wall, and you know what he is like with his oaths and honour. Bloody stubborn. He wouldn't accept my pardon."

"That may be true, but what if Jon has changed? He has been through a great deal. What if he never returns to the Wall and stays with the Wildlings? He was very happy in their company back in Winterfell. I could see him breaking his oath, and why not? He's given everything to the Realm, to its people, and look what he got in return."

"We requested that he guide the Freefolk because we knew he would enjoy it. He has earned more than that. But if he has changed… if he breaks his oath… well, what of it? I can't control him, nor will I. If he doesn't return… that's his choice."

"And you will have to make a choice too."

"What choice?"

"If Jon abandons the Wall and the Night's Watch," Tyrion answered lightly. "You must condemn him and label him a traitor."

"Excuse me!?" Sansa spat the words.

Tyrion edged ever closer and lowered his voice. "I know what you are thinking, the Wildlings helped us against the dead and helped you and Jon before then. That was an alliance out of need. They are not our enemies now, but as long as they do not kneel or do not accept the laws of our lands, they are not our allies. From what I know, the lands beyond the wall aren't exactly fertile, so years from now they may come south, seeking aid. And if that isn't enough, or if you can't provide what they request, they may come to raid the North just as they did in the past and with a giant hole in the Wall, it would be much easier. Should they do that, you will need to fight them. And if Jon chooses to break his oath to stay with the Wildlings, an example must be set."

"Need I remind you that the North is not apart of the Six Kingdoms. Neither is the Wall."

"I know, Sansa"

"Yet you speak as if they were."

Tyrion groaned and threw a frustrated look. "The North is independent, yes, but the Night's Watch is impartial. The North and the Six Kingdoms will no doubt be sending criminals and broken men to the Wall in the years to come, and we cannot allow people to think that they can just abandon the Night's Watch and their oaths without consequence."

Sansa scoffed and shook her head angrily. "So you want me to condemn my own brother as a traitor, after everything he has done?"

"If it comes to that… yes…" said Tyrion.

"How dare you. Jon considered you a friend."

"And I consider him a friend. I hope to see him on the Wall, all in black as I did all those years ago. But we must all consider the repercussions of our decisions. Sansa, please! I am saying all this for your sake and for your kingdom. You are smart, I know you've thought of all this yourself. Jon will understand the consequences of his choice, he will not resent you, should you condemn him."

Sansa broke eye contact with Tyrion and gazed north, her eyes heavy with despair. Tyrion was right, of course. But she doubted Jon would not hold resentment toward her. Though she did it for his sake, Sansa had broken a promise Jon held dear, and she cultivated a situation which led to Jon's current predicament and the death of a woman he loved. Were Sansa to condemn him as a traitor to the North, that would likely destroy any chance of fixing her and Jon's relationship. And what of the Northern Lords? What would they think? Or Arya, if she returned. What would she think if she found out what had happened? Sansa dreaded the notion of what Arya would think, would say. Would do.

 _Please come back to the Wall, Jon._ Sansa thought. She blinked slowly, regret clouding her. She looked down at the last Lannister in remorseful sorrow "Jon is my king, Tyrion. Not a traitor."

" _Was,_ your king."

She nodded, though it hurt. After a deep breath, Sansa straightened herself in the saddle. "Thank you for the words. And the advice. Good fortune and farewell, my friend." 

Tyrion smiled lightly and gave a short bow. "Farewell, Sansa," 

Sansa dug her heels into the mare, she shot forward at Sansa's will. Strapped to her saddle, Widow's Wail rattled in its scabbard with each trot as Sansa joined the Northmen, and King's Landing became a distant memory once again.

* * *

The ride back home along the well-tracked Kingsroad was long, but not lonesome. She rode with the remaining Northmen. The Vale and Riverlanders travelled together only a short distance ahead, never too far out of sight. Mounted on the white palfrey once belonging to Arya, Sansa trotted genially at the head of the Northern cavalcade, Aberdale on one side, Lord Cerwyn on the other. An array of guardsmen behind her, and further behind them Northmen. Healers, cooks, smiths, soldiers. Riding, walking or mounted in wagons. And just a few yards ahead of Sansa and the rest, rode Estyr. More struggling than riding, however. She bleated to her horse as it stepped against her will or altogether ignored her commands. Sansa looked on, as Estyr's horse came to a complete stop and when the Dornish girl kicked her heels in to prod her horse forward, he neighed angrily and nearly bucked Estyr off. At that sight, Sansa jolted her mare forward and galloped up to Estyr.

"You told me that you knew how to ride a horse," Sansa said to her.

"I do," Estyr replied defiantly. "It's not my fault they gave me a bad horse," She kicked her heels in once more. "Come on, Viper! Ya!"

"You chastised Jorge for the name Whitefang, yet you call your horse Viper?"

"Yeah... Well, he's got the same eyes as the Red Viper did."

"How do you know what Oberyn Martell's eyes looked like?"

"Stories," Estyr kicked harder. "Ya! Go! Move you dumb, stupid horse!"

"Arya Stark would give ya a hiding if she saw how ya treating that horse," said Aberdale as he and the rest rode closer. Sansa watched as Estyr looked sheepishly away from Aberdale and did not speak to him. She was like this all the time, and not just with the captain of Sansa's guard, but with all the Northern soldiers. Either staring apprehensively or ignoring them altogether, when they tried to speak to her, she wouldn't answer.

Estyr continued to try and edge her horse on, unsuccessfully, so Sansa rose a hand to signal the procession to a halt and called out. "JORGE!" The Master of Horse pushed through the crowd and positioned himself between Sansa and Estyr.

"She broke the lil' horse, m'lady?" he asked.

"Near about," Sansa said. "Help her, Jorge."

Jorge turned and began patting the young horse who whinnied anxiously. "He knows you're afraid of him."

"I'm not afraid of him, he won't do as he's told!" Estyr shot back.

"'Cause he don't like ya, he don't know ya. All's he knows is that you're afraid, and ya mean, and now he's fed up!"

"I'm fed up!"

"Get off him, young one. It's time ya got to know your horse better."

Sansa watched smiling as Jorge 'reintroduced' Estyr to her young horse. Calm words, gentle pats and some feeding with bits of apples. Eventually, Estyr mounted, but this time, she was guided by Jorge, showing how to properly direct a horse and emphasising how all horses, can smell fear, amongst many other talents. The Northern cavalcade resumed their march and slowly followed the pair, as they did Lord Cerwyn rode close to Sansa.

"So who's the southern girl?" he asked.

"My sister had a soft spot for her," Sansa said. "Estyr lost a lot in King's Landing. Arya trained her, and wanted me to take her in."

Cerwyn thought for a moment, then finally spoke. "Seems to me a lot of people lost a lot in King's Landing."

"Yes, and our soldiers helped with that when they sacked the city against Jon's command."

"It's war, my lady," Cerwyn said, taken aback.

"I love it when people say that. As if it's a valid excuse," said Sansa derisively.

"Well, all I'm saying is I don't know why that _Estyr_ is so special."

"She is _special_ , Lord Cerwyn, because Arya thought she was. Are you questioning my sister's decisions?"

Cerwyn laughed. "Not at all, Lady Sansa. But I get your point, I'll stop asking."

Lord Cley Cerwyn was not the most intelligent man Sansa had ever met, but he was far from a fool. Though he had refused the call to fight for the Starks against Ramsay Bolton, he quickly became fond of Jon as his king and eventually became a strong supporter of him and in turn, Sansa. And she liked Cerwyn. He was a head shorter than her, though muscular and pleasant to look at, with light brown hair and brown eyes encapsulated amidst a youthful face that often held a smile. But it wasn't his looks that Sansa liked, it was his capacity for change. Cerwyn was young and competent, and unlike most of the other Northern Lords, he was not afraid of innovation. Sansa knew, having someone like that in her court would always make life easier, especially considering how close Castle Cerwyn was to Winterfell.

"Cley, how is your sister?" Sansa asked him.

"Jonelle is a pain in my arse," He replied jauntily. "Otherwise, she's fine. At least she was when we left Cerwyn."

"I do hope to meet her."

"You might regret that."

Days of travel went by and on one night, the sky a vibrant light of stars, the Northerners had caught up with the Vale and Riverland forces and found themselves all camped outside of the Inn at the Crossroads. The inn was a buzz, Northmen, Valemen and Riverlands roamed inside and all around the inn's lands. Up the Kingsroad and down to where camps had been erected, a hundred or so men were lucky enough to spend the night in Lord Harroway's Town, much to the chagrin of many. In the early hours of the night, Sansa had joined the Valemen, speaking to the Knights of the Vale and their lords but spending most of her time talking to Lord Royce and Lord Robin. Robin Arryn was much meeker around Sansa since he suffered the thrashing from both her and Arya after the battle with the Dothraki. Royce was stalwart as always and happy to be returning to the Vale, after so long away from his home.

Edmure Tully had been one of the lucky ones who spent the night in Lord Harroway's Town, though Sansa suspected he elected himself for that privilege. Regardless she would not get to speak to him tonight, words would be said in the morning when the Vale and Riverlanders parted ways with the Northmen. As the conversations with Royce and Robin dwindled, Sansa elected to return to her Northmen. But before she did, she went on a search for Ser Roland Waynwood carrying with her a large parchment that she had fetched from her saddlebags. She found Roland lying neath a tree by a small fire, two other Valemen sat with him. When they spotted her, they immediately ceased their discussion and Roland tried to sit straighter, an attempt made difficult due to his shattered and near useless legs.

"Lady Sansa!" Ser Roland said with a hint of shock. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."

"Aye, want us to go, m'lady?" asked one of the Valemen.

Sansa smiled. "No of course not, I won't be long, I've just come to bring a gift," Sansa walked around the fire and knelt on both knees besides Roland. She lay the parchment down flat on the ground in front of the crippled knight.

Roland studied the drawings on the parchment then looked up to Sansa with wonder. "My lady, is this..."

"It is," she answered. "However, the sizing will need to change based on your horse and yourself. And you will need to train the horse to respond to the reigns."

He glanced at the parchment again, then back to Sansa. "Will it really work?"

"A similar design was made for my brother. He was a child, but I don't see how this couldn't work for you."

A wide grin fell on Roland and his eyes lit up like the night's stars. "My lady! I could kiss you... if you weren't my lady..."

"Please don't," Sansa said with a smirk. "I can smell the ale on your breath."

The two Valemen gave a chorus of laughter that felt as if the ground shook, Roland himself joined them. "Hah! I don't think I've ever been turned down so hard. At least it wasn't because of my legs!"

Sansa smiled again and put a gentle hand on Roland's shoulder. "Once you've had the saddle made and you've got used to it, I should like to hear of its success. Send a raven, or better yet, ride to Winterfell. You and your family are always welcome."

"I will ride to Winterfell, Lady Sansa. And I swear to bring you a gift worthy of your greatness!"

“You owe me nothing, Ser Roland. Your presence alone would be a gift itself.”

She shared a drink with Roland, and the two Valemen then took her leave and begun to walk back towards the inn. Though she walked alone amongst the camps, she never feared for herself. As she marched, Valemen, Riverlanders and Northmen alike parted for her if they were in her way, smiled as she passed, offered her a drink or some food, asked her of her night, spoke to her of tales or simply said hello. Eventually, she returned and found, beyond the inn, Aberdale sitting amongst a mass of Northerners around a large fire. Though behind them and to Sansa's surprise, Estyr sat on a log next to Jorge wiping a rag down the thin sword that Arya had gifted her. But a roar came when the group of Northmen spotted Sansa, they all raised their cups, cheered and begged her to join them. She found a spot next to Aberdale and participated in the revelry, taking another drink, though this was a cheap wine that apparently Aberdale had stolen from King's Landing. Sansa listened to her vassals and soldiers sing, tell stories of events long past or ones they all recently shared. They spoke of their families, their swords and their battles. Being amidst the common people was something Sansa rarely did, she knew, and she did feel out of place. Yet at the same time, listening to these men who mostly came from small communities such as Wintertown or much smaller unnamed villages around the North — men who rarely washed and had little to their name, whose lot in life was just to survive. Sansa began to understand why Arya enjoyed being amongst the common people — there were no games here, no intrigue, no knives in backs or spies or poison wine. Just truths. They told you what you did wrong, they admitted their dislikes, and underneath all the dirt, there was a charm. Sansa continued to listen to their stories, and as the cheap wine slowly diminished in her cup, her stomach growled. Sansa turned her head to see Estyr, still sitting beside Jorge, still religiously wiping the rag down the blade of her sword.

Sansa faced the group of Northmen. "You must forgive me, but I shall take my leave."

Aberdale burped. "Oh, shit… 'scuse me, m'lady. Would ya like an escort?"

"I'll be fine, Captain," Sansa left the cup of wine and rose to her feet.

"Nayyy, I shaaalll join ya, Lady Sansha! I'm ya captain!" Aberdale drawled and attempted to get to his feet, but slipped and fell hard on the ground. The Northmen around the fire burst into laughter, and Sansa herself tried to hold back a giggle.

"Greatbeard here can't hold this southern piss!" shouted a Northern soldier.

"Oh fuck off, Rud!" roared Aberdale, then looked up to Sansa with guilt. "Forgive me words, m'lady."

"I've seen southern street whores that can hold more wine than you, Aberdale," Sansa spat with a grin. Aberdale looked on, both shocked and exulted and the Northerners roared with laughter again.

"Oi Lady Sansa's right, I've seen em," said a Northmen. 

"You ain't seen shit, Gil," replied another.

"All 'scept 'is mother's fat arse," Aberdale threw in, and more laughter echoed amongst the men. But once again, Aberdale looked up to Sansa. "Ahh! We shouldn't be speakin' like this in front of our lady..."

"It's fine, Aberdale. Stay and enjoy the night. But don't drink too much," Sansa said with a smirk.

“Think he already failed that, m’lady,” the Northmen named Gil said.

Aberdale grinned sheepishly. "Yet I shall try... and FAIL! Hah!"

Sansa chuckled and made her way from the fire, toward the Estyr and Jorge. The sound of the Northmen's laughter trailed behind her. As she approached the pair, Jorge looked up from the saddle he was mending by the light of a candle.

"A fine night, m'lady," he said.

"It is," responded Sansa. "You two the best of friends now, hmm?" she noticed Estyr smile shyly.

"Ahh, she's ain't so bad once ya talk to her for a bit," offered Jorge. "Reminds me of my son."

"I remind you of a boy," Estyr said disgustedly. "Eww!" Jorge chortled in response.

"You have a son?" Sansa asked.

"No, m'lady... _Had_. He died just after winter started. Became sick, nothin' we did cured 'im."

"What was his name?" Estyr asked, sadly.

"Rodrick, like me father."

Sansa gave Jorge a remorseful smile. "I'm sorry, Jorge. Rodrick is a good name, a strong name. And your son won't be forgotten. Do you mind if I take Estyr off your hands?"

Jorge smiled. "Be my guest, Lady Sansa."

Estyr rose quickly and sheathed her sword on her hip. "Where we going?"

"To eat. Come."

The interior of the Inn at the Crossroads was crowded with men from the three processions. Speckled amongst them were others — traders, travellers and the like who rested at the inn during their journey through Westeros. As Sansa and Estyr walked, three Northmen immediately rose and gave up their table to the pair, Sansa thanked the men and her and Estyr sat opposite each other. As soon as they had become comfortable, they were come upon by an old woman smiling a toothy grin.

"Pleasure to see you again, Lady Sansa. Terrible tragedy what happened in the Capital," the old innkeeper said.

"It was," Sansa replied. "How do things fair in the Riverlands?”

"Oh, the only interesting thing has been all the armies passing through of late. Nothin' worth note has happened since the Frey's were wiped out. There's stories going abouts that ya sister did that... Is that true, m'lady?”

"I would not talk of stories about Arya when she is not here to defend herself,"

"Oh, fair, fair. Forgive me. What can I get you?"

"A slice of pigeon pie and a piece of lemon cake," said Sansa.

"Anything to wash it down?"

"Your best wine."

The old innkeeper gave a discouraged look. "Oh, I am sorry, m'lady, but we don't have any wine left, even the cheap stuff. What with all the men passing through, they drank it faster than we could bring it in. We've plenty of ale and mead, though!"

Sansa sighed. "Ale it is then."

"Very good, anything for the lil' lady?"

"Just get her water," Sansa answered. "Your baker, Hotpie, is he here?"

"Ermm, he is, m'lady," the innkeeper said subdued. "He's out back."

"I'd like to speak to him." 

"O'course, m'lady," after a short bow, the innkeeper left, and Estyr suddenly shot to attention. 

"What was that about Arya and the Freys?" she asked

"Just stories," Sansa said.

"Can you tell me them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because they are Arya's stories."

"What about your stories then? The Battle of the Bastards, the Boltons?"

"What about them?" Sansa asked with a glare.

"You led the Knights of the Vale to win the battle."

"It was the efforts of many people, not one."

"You fed a man to his hounds."

"I did."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Because he was a bad man, Estyr," Sansa said seriously. _"I'll always be apart of you, Sansa."_ Ramsay's words in her mind.

"What was it like watching hounds eat a man alive?"  Estyr asked with a devilish smirk.

Sansa rose her head. "Satisfying."

"What'd you do with the hounds?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"That's what Arya said," Estyr responded full of cheer, but then dropped her shoulders sadly. "Why'd she have to go?"

"Because she wanted to. My sister went through a lot."

"So did a lot of people."

"Some more than others. And we all handle it differently."

"She should have stayed," Estyr spat.

Sansa noticed the derision in Estyr voice, and she studied the girls face as she played with a splinter sticking out from the wooden table. The Dornish girl was upset with Arya leaving, yet only showed it in rare moments like this. Sansa understood why, but she did not want these thoughts to fester into something worse. "Don't be mad at Arya," Sansa said.

Estyr fired up with a scowl. "Don't tell me what to think."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "There is the famous quick tongue of the Dornish."

"I'm… sorry," Esytr said, receding back into the bench. "I… Arya was… she was good to me… like my mother, and she trained me without asking anything of me. I wanted her to stay…”

"So did I," Sansa admitted. "But Arya makes her own choices, and she needed to leave, for her own good."

Estyr nodded slowly, then Sansa spotted the old innkeeper bringing forth the food, water and ale. "Hotpie?" Sansa asked again when the innkeeper placed the items on the table.

"Erm, he's still quite busy, m'lady." said the innkeeper. "I'll make sure he comes out as soon as he finished."

Sansa narrowed her eyes quickly, then smiled. "Very well." Sansa took the pewter knife and fork and began cutting the slice of pigeon pie in half. She set one half on an empty plate and passed it to Estyr. The girl just stared at the food and opted to drink her water instead.

"Don't like pigeon pie?" asked Sansa.

Estyr shook her head. "Not hungry."

"Of course you are. Have some lemon cake then," Sansa cut a small piece of pie and gently ate. 

The Dornish girl shook her head again, "Yuck. Don't like lemon cake. Too sour."

"It's only sour if they are made wrong. The lemon cakes here are the best I've ever had."

"No. I'm not hungry."

Sansa dropped her utensils and glared at the girl. "I may not be able to read faces like Arya, but I can surely tell that was a lie."

"It wasn't a lie! I already ate."

"When?"

"When you went off speaking to those Vale lords." Estyr dropped her shoulders and sighed. "I… I stole some of the Northmen's bread and cheese…”

"Stole?! Why in the Seven Hells… You are my ward, the Northmen would have given you food if you asked."

Estyr didn't respond. She just stared at the table dejectedly and began playing with splinter again. Sansa swallowed, and slide her plate of pigeon pie to the side. "What is it about the Northmen? I've seen the way you are around them. Tell me the truth now."

"I…” Estyr stopped then looked up slowly, her large brown eyes full of sadness. "When King's Landing was attacked… I saw the dragon burn people. I saw the Dothraki run them down, I saw the Unsullied kill my… my mother… and others. And I saw… Northmen in that armour they’re wearing now, attacking unarmed soldiers and chasing civilians trying to escape…”

"And you can't look at them, or talk to them without being reminded of that?" Sansa ventured.

Estyr nodded slowly. "How can you trust them to protect you? How can you lead bad men like that? How can you even talk to them?"

Sansa grabbed the girls hand and looked into her dark, Dornish eyes. "Punishing them, ignoring them… That won't change what happened or what they did. Men are beasts, some more than others. I do not trust them all and I know what they are capable of if they are pushed. But they do not reflect all the people of the North who I lead. There are not just good people and bad people, Estyr. Nothing is that simple. When those men, who butchered a city, close their eyes at night, they will remember the horrors they did, no amount of ale or whores will allow them escape."

Estyr blinked and shook her head. "You and Arya seem to be good. And from what I've heard, Jon Snow as well."

"We've all done plenty of bad things to get to where we are. But those are stories for another day," Sansa released her hand and slid over the plate with the small piece of lemon cake. "Here, have some. You won't regret it, trust me."

Estyr reluctantly cut a piece of the cake, and gently nibbled on it. But as she did, her face changed, her eyes went wide, and she smiled. "It's good!"

Sansa returned the smile. "Told you. How did you even manage to steal food from the Northmen without being caught?"

"Well, it wasn't my first time," Estyr stuffed another, bigger piece of the cake in her mouth. "When mother and I came to King's Landing, we didn't have much coin… so, sometimes I would sneak through the city and steal food from the vendors. I never got caught."

"Is that so…” Sansa said with contemplation. "You're quiet? Know how to lurk around? Where'd you learn this skill?"

"In Dorne... I'm probably not as quiet as Arya."

Sansa laughed. "No, I doubt that," then she spotted, out of the corner of her eye, the old innkeeper serving a table. Sansa called out to her. "Innkeep!"

The old woman spotted her and anxiously walked over to Sansa and Estyr's table when she arrived, she placed the tankard she held down and tried to speak. "M'lady, I—"

"What is your name?" Sansa interrupted her.

"Masha, m'lady," she answered suspiciously.

"Do not mistake my youth, for naivety, Masha. Look around you." Masha looked nervously around her inn, paying close attention to the Stark soldiers. Sansa continued. "This inn is full of men loyal to me, and hundreds of more outside. Lie to me again."

Masha swallowed hard. "I'll go and get Hotpie right now, m'lady," Sansa watched as Masha quickly hurried away through a door in the back, then immediately returned with Hotpie, pulling on his ragged shirt. 

As they approached, Hotpie's chubby cheeks went red as he smiled wide. "Good to see you, Lady Sanza!"

" _Sansa_ ," Estyr muttered, her mouth full of lemon cake.

"You too, Hotpie," said Sansa. "Have you thought about my offer?"

"I 'ave m'lady, and I… I would like to go, but—"

"Er, m'lady, if I may," Masha croaked. "But… well, we would like compensation if you took Hotpie."

" _Compensation_!?" Sansa blurted. "You want me to buy him from you? He is not a slave to be bought or sold."

"No, no, of course not… But… well many come to our inn just for Hotpie's cakes and pies and bread, we would lose much should he go."

Sansa looked at Hotpie, who smiled nervously. "They've been good to me, m'lady. I… I wouldn't feel right to just up and go. If I could… stay and have food sent to Winterfell…”

"That won't do," Sansa sat up straight on the bench. "I will not buy him… but I offer this. Hotpie will come with us if he still wishes, and while he stays in Winterfell, I will have him train a pair of young Northern boys for a few months. Once Hotpie is satisfied that they can bake as good as he, then I will send them to this inn, where they will work provided you give them food and shelter."

Masha's eyes lit up. "O'course m'lady, but… but can ya find young lads that will want to leave home and work in an inn?"

"Many were orphaned thanks to the Great War. They would be happy just to have a home and a purpose."

Yellow teeth flashed as Masha grinned. "We have an accord!"

A damp morning came and with it, the aches of men who drank too much, Aberdale included. “Fuck tha’ cheap wine,” he had cursed as he saddled his horse. “Worst decision I ever made.” Farewells were made as Edmure and his army rode west towards Riverrun and the Lords of the Vale returned to the mountains, though Sansa had a feeling she would see them all soon enough. Sansa once again rode at the front of the procession, a force considerably dwindled with the departure of the Riverlanders and the Vale. She led the few hundred Northmen, while Aberdale rode on one side, Estyr on the other and Hotpie sat in a carriage behind them, nibbling on a piece of dry cake. Estyr rode confidently now, she no longer needed Jorge to guide her young chestnut horse, though he still proved to be difficult to control. As the Dornish girl trotted besides, Sansa spotted her eyeing the white mare and Sansa in its saddle.

“You give her a name yet?” Estyr finally asked, her head pointing towards the mare Sansa rode..

“I did,” Sansa said pridefully. “Her name is Winterrose.”

Estyr postulated, then spoke. “Like the flower? It’s a pretty name, why choose that?”

Sansa smiled in thought. “Because she is strong of will. Wild and beautiful.”

* * *

Wintertown welcomed them with an array of peasants and commoners who smiled as Sansa and her progression marched through the main street of the small village. Some bowed, grinned, waved or hollered out. Others offered nonchalant greetings with a turn of their hand or a short nod of their head. Then came Winterfell. The main gate and walls had all been repaired, an array of Northern soldiers lined the main courtyard as Sansa and her guard rode in. In the yard, lined up together, were the Northern lords and ladies waiting patiently. Sansa dismounted Winterrose as Lord Cerwyn rode into the courtyard. She turned to face the lords and ladies, seeing Manderly, Tallhart, Magnar, Forrester, Ryswell, Slate, Ironsmith, Flint and yet more. Though, standing shorter than the rest, was Lady Meera Reed.

Sansa stepped toward them, and the booming voice of Lord Magnar, a man Sansa herself rose to Lord of the Dreadfort came roaring. "Welcome home, Lady Sansa! Glad to be out of that incestuous city I wager."

Sansa grinned "Thank you, my lord, I am. And I am grateful that you have all arrived."'

"Course my lady," said Rodrick Ryswell. The Lord of the Rills and a man Sansa did not trust. The Ryswells had sworn to the Boltons immediately after they took Winterfell. "We're grateful not to be kneeling to any dragons."

"Here, here!" Manderly called out.

She smiled at Lord Ryswell. "As am I. Though you will forgive me, my lords, my ladies, I must take a moment to settle, then we shall convene inside the Great Hall."

They all bowed and agreed and started to separate from the crowd as they did, Maester Wolkan carried his old legs in a wobbly gait toward Sansa. He smiled kindly. "Congratulations on securing independence, my lady."

"Thank you, maester. Any problems while I was gone?" Sansa inquired.

"Oh no, the Wildlings left shortly after you sent the raven. The peasants are thankful that the Starks rid the North of the invader and all the noble houses are here as you requested."

"All of them?" she asked, not at all convinced.

"Well... No... I have word from--"

"Not here, let's go inside."

Together they marched from the courtyard and up the stairs leading to the Great Hall. When they arrived inside, Sansa saw the hall littered with chairs all awaiting the Northmen and at the very back, upon the dais was the hearth with a fire roaring and before it was the great table with four chairs for the Lords and Ladies of Winterfell. Sansa strode up the Great Hall eyeing the table and chairs. She stepped up on the dais and walked around the table, running her hands across the chairs. Four chairs, one for Jon, one for Sansa, one for Arya and one for Bran. She felt her heart sink as she ran her hand across each chair, and she shuddered as she remembered her family. All she had left of them, was memory.

"I wasn't sure who would be returning," Maester Wolkan whimpered from behind Sansa. "Shall I take away the unneeded chairs from the great table?"

Sansa spun around to face him. "No, no. Leave them." She walked towards the large hearth and its warm fire. "You have word from Deepwood Motte?" she asked, staring into the blaze.

Wolkan ruffled through his dark robes and pulled out a parchment, it had a broken seal of the fist of House Glover. "This arrived a week ago, Lord Glover’s wife is, er... sick."

"Sick? With what, the pox?" Sansa took the parchment from Wolkan and began to read the lies.

_Lady Sansa_

_I am overjoyed to hear that you have given the North indepandance. I offer my thanks and my loyalty..._

"But," Sansa mumbled to herself as she read.

_But I cannot ride to Winterfell for the council, my wife has come ill, Sybelle is bedridden, and I must stay in Deepwood Motte for her. I know the North will choose a good ruler for our now indepandant kingdom._

_Robett Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte._

"He spelt _independent_ wrong," Sansa folded the parchment, then threw it carelessly into the hearth. She watched as the fire enveloped the treacherous words.

"Pardon, my lady?" Wolkan asked.

"Nothing. Robett Glover's wife is not sick. He will not come to Winterfell because he knows he will find it difficult to leave."

"Because he broke his oath to the Starks?"

"Two oaths."

"What will you do?"

"I haven't decided yet. Besides, the North has a more pressing issue right now." She looked to Wolkan. "Have my handmaidens brought to my solar, I will wash and change. Then bring the lord and ladies in at noon for council."

"As you command," Wolkan bowed.

"One final thing," Sansa said, and she reached beneath her breastplate and took out the thick and heavily folded parchment Tyrion had given her. "Take this and make copies."

Wolkan took the parchment warily and unfolded it. His old eyes lit up, then narrowed as he studied to schematics. He eyed Sansa with wonderment. "My lady, are these plans for the weapons that shot down the dragons?"

"They call them Scorpions. I wish to start constructing them as soon as possible. Keep the original schematic safe."

"Of course, of course," Maester Wolkan bowed again, and Sansa turned to leave the Great Hall but as she did Wolkan called out quickly. "Er, Lady Sansa."

"Yes?" she turned back, watching him once again tousle through his robes.

Wolkan relieved from his robes, another parchment. "This came a few days ago... er, given who it is from, I didn't read it."

"Good of you, maester," Sansa said as she took the parchment from his hand and she noticed on its front the unbroken wax seal, of a direwolf. She gazed at the seal for a long time. Then she lifted her eyes at Wolkan, who was smiling. "I will take this in my solar."

Winterfell's Lord’s Chambers remained undisturbed during Sansa's leave. The small Stark banners still hung on the grey walls. Her side table below the window housed silverware goblets and a pitcher full of Arbor Red wine. Her bedding layered with clean furs and linens and the miniature statues of direwolves and weirwood faces still sat upon the sill above the hearth. Sansa unclasped her wolf fur cloak and laid it out on her bedding, then moved to the hearth and kindled a fire. As it took blaze, she poured herself wine, walked to her office table and sat at its chair. She once again stared at the direwolf seal on the parchment. Sansa took a long gulp of her wine, broke the seal and read its words.

_305 A.C The Voyager ship - Grey Wind, weighed anchor by the Targaryen Islands._

_In the hand of Arya Stark - Princess of Winterfell, Hero of Winterfell and Captain of the Grey Wind._

_For Queen Sansa Stark._

_My First Mate, Lyno Alestor, recommends that I write the year, our location and all my titles so that people now, and of future generations, can properly track our ships journey west and it’s captain. Let me be clear, I hate it. I will only do it in formal letters written to King’s Landing or Winterfell. I hate heroes. I am not a Lady, never have been. And I am not a bloody Princess._

_On our journey to the Targaryen Islands we encountered a small storm, Grey Wind received no major damage. The islands were plentiful with animal life, Lyno, along with Mikel and Pratt managed a good two days of hunting, according to Alora and Lyno, with what we have hunted and what we took from King’s Landing, they say we have enough food for six months. I enjoy the waves and the wind, but I hope to see land before then._

_I sent a raven to King’s Landing for Bran, Tyrion and Samwell Tarly. Lyno suggests the Citadel and the Capital of the Six Kingdoms will both like a record of our journey. I have also sent a raven to the Wall, for Jon and I am currently in my cabin writing this last letter, as Grey Wind drifts offshore of Visenya’s Island. We leave at my command, but as I write this there is a part of me that wants to sail north-east, back to Westeros. Back home. But the allure of adventure, the mystery of what’s west of Westeros takes my heart elsewhere._

_This is the most I think I have said in my entire life. I suppose that is a sign for me to go._

_Sansa, this is for you. I know you will rule well. I know you are smart. You are the smartest person I've ever met. But please be careful. If I ever do return, I will only kneel to you, and no one else._

_Captain Arya Stark._

Sansa felt the single cold tear run down her cheek, she let it flow while she smiled like a child at Arya’s letter. Every parchment she would receive from Arya she would keep close to her, especially this one. Even though nothing had been set in stone, Arya seemed to be able to see the future, or was just wholly confident on its outcome, as she had called Sansa Queen and she had knelt before Sansa on the docks of King’s Landing. Sansa continued to smile as the memories fluttered through her mind, and she reread the letter — Arya’s hope and good news, her love and her wish for Sansa to be safe. And most of all Arya’s acknowledgement of her own titles. She is a Captain and the Hero of Winterfell, and she might very well be a Princess. Sansa laughed at herself, regretting that she never teased her sister over that fact. But as she re-read it again and again, and finished her wine, noon edge ever near and her handmaiden’s came to her door. It was time for Sansa to put down her face of the big sister, and wear the harsh face of the Lady of Winterfell.

The Great Hall was filled, a bustle of the voices of the lords and ladies came to Sansa’s ears as she walked into the hall. Her household guard flanked the hearth and surrounded the dais, upon which Sansa stepped up to. As she did, dressed in Stark grey, her vassals rose from their chairs at her presence. She sat, and so did they. She looked down at the hall and noticed Estyr, standing at the very end, nervously glancing around the hall and all the people who filled it. Sansa swallowed and made her voice boom so everyone would hear.

“My lords, my ladies. I am sure you are all aware of why I asked you all to this council,” Sansa held up yet another parchment she carried. “I have here, written proof from King’s Landing, signed by King Bran saying that the North is officially independent from the Six Kingdoms, from this day until the end of time.”

A resounding roar of cheers, whoops and shouts echoed through the Great Hall. The Northmen stamped their feet hard, shaking the floor. They slammed their cups and mugs on their chairs or on the nearby tables, filling the hall with a clanger of joy. But as they did, Sansa looked to her sides, at the empty chairs beside her. Bran would have been on her left at the end of the table. Sansa sat in the centre and to her right would have been Jon, and next to him at the other end of the table, though she rarely attended council, would have been Arya. Sansa starred at the chairs longingly, as the ruckus died down she faced her liegeman and gave them a sad smile.

"Though, this freedom has cost us a great deal," Sansa said. "Winterfell is well on the way to repair. But lands from the Wall down to the White Knife have been ravaged by the White Walkers. Thousands of our people died, our friends. Our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. The North needs someone to lead, to sustain the memory of those who sacrificed everything so that we may live. To rebuild our country and guide it to a stronger, better future."

She watched as the Northmen began murmuring amongst themselves. Wyman Manderly spoke to Cley Cerwyn. Rodrick Ryswell whispered deceit to his son. The hall filled with a whisper and silent conversations of head nods and hand waves and Sansa looked down to her palms. She wasn't a war hero, like Jon or Arya. She had no powers of the Old Gods like Bran. She was just a woman, with far more wit and intelligence than all the people in this hall. Sansa once again wished her siblings were here by her side. But the discussion suddenly became quiet. Sansa looked up to see the hall all looking to her.

“We already know who will lead us,” Manderly said calmly.

Meera Reed jumped off her chair and walked towards the dais. “Aye, we already have our leader.”

Lady Lyessa Flint, the widow of Widow’s Watch, rose from her chair. "Aye! Lady Sansa is a Stark, they ruled for thousands of years. Ned and Catelyn Stark were the greatest people I ever knew!"

Harland Magnar stood tall, his chair grinding back. "Sansa Stark and Jon Snow took Winterfell back, took the North out of the hands of tyrants! While Jon went south, Lady Sansa brought us peace and security, she protected our people and brought them here."

Cerwyn arose. "I was reluctant to kneel before Jon Snow. But no longer. Jon and Sansa ruled together against Cersei and the White Walkers. They led us through the Long Night. Jon Snow killed the tyrant queen. Arya Stark saved us all, Brandon Stark rules the south and their sister sits before us, she defended us, fought for our independence against Daenerys Targaryen!"

The hall echoed again with cries of agreement, Meera Reed shouted above them. "Sansa Stark did not kneel before the dragons, but I kneel before her," she drew her short sword, stuck the point into the ground and knelt on one knee. "The Queen in the North!"

Manderly rose and stepped forward, his large figure sauntering. "Aye! She is the future of House Stark, the future of the North! Brandon Stark, Jon Snow, Arya Stark, Sansa Stark, their names will live in memory along with the Age of Heroes. Sansa Stark led us through the coldest and harshest winter any of us can remember. She stood against the Dragon Queen where others knelt. Sansa Stark is the Queen who Never Knelt. She is the Queen of Winter." Wyman Manderly drew his longsword, the steel sung and echoed, he pointed the sword high. "She is the Red Wolf! The Queen in the North!"

As Manderly stuck the point of his sword in the ground, and knelt on his knee, the rest of the hall followed him like a wave. The sound of steel reverberated as they all drew their weapons. The points dug into the timber, their knees fell to the floor, and they all shouted. "THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!" the hall echoed with hundreds of voices.

_"Congratulation, little dove. You got what you wished."_

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

_"I'd be queen someday. Please make father say yes! Please, please! It's the only thing I ever wanted."_

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!" they continued to cheer, and as they did, Sansa rose from her chair. She could not hide the pride and wonder at the event before her. And she saw, still standing at the back of the hall, Estyr, a small smile on her little Dornish face.

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

_"Ned Stark's daughter will speak for them. She's the best they could ask for."_

* * *

**Three Months Later**

Winterfell was once again a buzz. The castle and its surroundings became filled with all the lords and ladies of the North, their families and a retinue of guards for each. They all came to see through the coronation and swear oath once more, all except one. Though it was not only lords and ladies that came to Winterfell — hog farmers, butchers, cooks, singers, merchants — all came to sell their wares, practice their talents for coin and join in the revelry of the coronation and the feast that would take place after. Yet they were not all Northmen, a singer from the Six Kingdoms came, filling Wintertown and Winterfell with his songs as did other lords of the Six Kingdoms. Lord Davos, King Bran's Master of Ships had come as a representative King's Landing. 

"Lord Tyrion and King Bran give their apologies for not coming," Lord Davos said when he arrived. "There is a lot of work still to do in King's Landing, they are rather busy."

"Not too busy for the Master of Ships though?” Sansa asked cheekily.

Davos grinned, "No, Your Grace… but I like it that way."

She laughed. “I'm glad you came, Davos," and she was. For all the reservations and suspicions she may have had with Davos when he served Jon, he never once betrayed him or the Starks and stood by Jon's side, till the end. 

Edmure Tully rode from Riverrun saying that he could not miss the celebration and his niece's coronation. He brought with him, his guard, his son and his wife. Though Roslin Frey Tully was courteous, she had been distant and wary of Sansa. Perhaps she would be more courteous if Arya were here, reminding her what the Frey's did and what Arya gave them in return, Sansa thought. Though that would likely only make her warier. Robin Arryn, Bronze Yon Royce and Roland Waynwood came down from their kingdom in the mountains of the Vale. They revelled in the coming feast, and Robin asked Sansa if she had built a moon door in Winterfell, she hadn't. Roland Waynwood rode to Winterfell with his specially made saddle and brought with him his family -- his uncle, Donnel Waynwood, his mother Carlyn and her and Morton Waynwood’s daughter, Sansa. A girl of two years with light brown hair, hazel eyes and her fathers kind smile. They were kind and generous to Sansa, as they always were. But even with their kindness and understanding of the death of Ser Morton Waynwood, Sansa could not help but feel hollow when she remembered him and the way he died. The massacre the Dothraki had done to his body… his severed head pulled from a bag. Sansa shuddered and pushed back the memory.

The last to arrive, and to Sansa's surprise, was Gendry Baratheon. He arrived on the day her coronation would take place, and now he stood beside her, in Winterfell's empty Great Hall. The tables and chairs that once littered the hall and been taken out, a great vast space where the lords and ladies would stand before the dais now existed. All that called the Great Hall home was the hearth at the very back, upon the dais. And in front of it, a throne. Commissioned by the Lords of the North, built by the carpenters of White Harbor and made from weirwood trees from all over the North. The Weirwood Throne laid singular and powerful in the Great Hall, its direwolf carvings snarling fiercely, as always.

"That's fine work," Gendry said as he stared at the throne. "The Northmen have done well."

"It is far more appealing than the Iron Throne was," said Sansa. _Though I would give a thousand of these thrones to have my family back._

Gendry chuckled. "I'll take your word for it, my lady... err, Your Grace."

She smiled, "Sansa will do fine, I haven't had my coronation yet."

"Well, Sansa, I've brought a gift for you," Gendry shouted to the entrance of the Great Hall, and immediately one of his guards barreled through, carrying in his hands a small, jewel-encrusted chest. The guard stood before them and opened the chest. Upon tiny silk bedding, was an iron crown. Smithed to perfection and polished to a shine, the crown showed two direwolves snarling at the front. One direwolf head supporting the other. Just as their family had. The workmanship was like nothing Sansa had seen, far better than any smith in the North she thought.

"I was told that Starks built Storm's End," Gendry stated with a smile. "It's a bit late, but I thought I might return the favour."

"You made this?" Sansa said with wonder as she took the crown out of its chest. The iron shimmered in the light. "Gendry… I can't…”

"You can, what's a queen without a crown, eh? It’s no great castle walls, but I think that crown is my best work."

For three hundred years, the North had no crown, until Robb Stark, but Sansa learned that he rarely wore his. When Jon became king, he never had a crown made, he had much more pressing issues to focus on. 

"You needn't have done this, Gendry," she said as she ran her fingers across the rim of the crown. "But it's beautiful. I love it," she placed it gently back into its chest. "Take it to Maester Wolkan, he will keep it safe until it is needed," she said to Gendry's guard. "Captain Aberdale will take you there."

As the guardsmen left, Sansa and Gendry sauntered toward the dais, the heat from roaring fire in the large hearth could already be felt. "Thank you again, Gendry. You've become quite a talented smith. I'm surprised you had the time."

Gendry smiled at her. "Well, I try to make some bits and baubles when I can. Helps keep me grounded, remind me where I came from."

"I understand. How do the Stormlands fair?" Sansa asked.

"They fair well, I guess having no wars waged is good for the people and the farmlands," said Gendry.

"What of the lords and ladies. How are they taking to their new Lord Paramount?"

Gendry stopped in his tracks. "Some of them are wary of me like you said. I thought Cortney Penrose would be the worst, but he has changed the tone of a few of 'em."

"This is the same Lord Penrose that you punched in the face?"

"Yeah," Gendry said with a short laugh. "Guess that won him over. He is an ass, but he has the best interest of his people in mind."

"Sometimes lords who only think for their people, fail to see the bigger picture," Sansa said gravely.

"What do you mean?"

Sansa stared at the Weirwood Throne and the blaze burning in the hearth. "It's stuffy in here, let's go outside."

With Gendry beside, and her household guard keeping a safe distance, they walked out of the Great Hall and through the courtyards of Winterfell. The noise of wood smacking together preceded them as they walked into the training courtyard. In its centre, stood two figures, one considerably shorter than the other. And the short one howled as the figures wooden training swords clashed together again and again. Sansa approached, and the two figures stopped instantly. The shorter figure was breathing heavily, sweat on the brow and on the ragged boyish clothes she wore. 

Sansa beamed at her.  "How goes the training?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Estyr wiped her sweaty brow and shook her dark brown hair.

"Oh, is that true, Syllo?" Sansa asked with a short laugh. The other figure was a Braavosi. Paid with the money Arya had given Sansa and recommended by the Sea Lord of Braavos himself, Syllo Vollel was a Bravo water dancer who had spent many years sparring by the Moon Pool or hired as a guard for the nobility of Braavos. He was a slim man with beady eyes and a thin smile. His long brown hair rested on his shoulders, and his olive skin was a dark as Estyr's.

Syllo bowed deeply to Sansa. "A good student she is, Your Grace. Lady Arya taught her well. Though young Estyr is quite overconfident."

"Confidence is good!" Estyr threw back a Syllo.

The Braavosi turned on her with a thin smile. "The day before last, you cried when you twisted your ankle and got fed up with training. Now you say this is 'nothing you can't handle.' So, which is the truth, hmm?"

Estyr rolled her eyes and slowly turned her head towards Gendry. "You're Lord Gendry, right? I saw you in King's Landing."

"I saw you too," Gendry replied warmly. And Sansa watched as Estyr tried to fight back a blush.

"Arya told me that you made my sword," Estyr stated.

"I did," said Gendry. "Are you looking after it?"

"Yes, my lord. Just like Arya showed me how."

"Taught her much, Lady Arya did," Syllo added. "It has made training far easier for me, hah!"

Sansa gave him a warm smile. "Speaking of training, I think it is time you get back to it. If you'll join me, Lord Gendry."

Together, they walked up the stone stairs leading to the western battlements, and they stood alone, watching Estyr train below them. "Wonder why Arya went through all that effort for that girl," Gendry thought aloud.

Sansa wondered herself, whether she should tell Gendry the truth about Estyr. "Arya has a soft spot for peasants, I think."

"Maybe, she spent enough time with us."

" _Us_? You're a lord now, Gendry."

He smiled. "Sometimes I like to forget," then he turned around, facing west, studying the Wolfswood in the distance. "You've got a lot of work ahead of you."

"I do," Sansa admitted. "Though, I am looking forward to it, if I am honest."

"You are?" he asked, perplexed eyes marking his face.

"I enjoy the rule. And it is good to finally receive vindication after all that has happened, and all that I've seen. It may be selfish, I know. But I don't care."

Gendry gave a short snicker. "Don't blame you. What's your first task as queen?"

Sansa smirked at the Baratheon. "Are you a spy, Gendry."

"Only making conversation, Your Grace."

She waved off the comment, and her smile became severe. "The North needs to rebuild, abandoned castles need new lords and ladies. Farmlands need to be sowed, armaments need to be made. And we need a fleet. But before all that, I need to set an example, to a certain oath breaker, twice over."

"Robett Glover?"

Sansa eyed him. "You know?"

Gendry gesticulated across the massive castle of Winterfell. "Well, all the North is here. I see their banners in the castle and in their camps outside the walls. But I don't see the fist of House Glover."

"You've been studying the coat-of-arms of Westeros? I'm impressed."

"I've got all the Stormlands down, most of the North too. What will you do with Lord Glover?"

"I've spent much time thinking about this. But I'm curious, what would you do?"

"Sansa, I wouldn't presume to--"

"I want to hear your opinion, Gendry."

Gendry's eyes shot to the ground in thought, then he raised them looking up to the North. "Hmm, he broke an oath, and I'm assuming you want to punish him for that. But he will stay inside his castle, so you will have to siege it. But that could lead to the death of Northmen. You'd need to take the castle without loss of life, or force Glover out of it."

"Moderate thought. There is hope for you yet, Lord Baratheon," Sansa smiled cheekily, and Gendry laughed. "But you are right. I will need to set an example to the North, I cannot allow what Glover did to go unpunished. But I do not want to be remembered as the queen who killed Northern soldiers and commoners in a siege. I have word from inside Deepwood Motte that the loyalty and respect for Robett Glover dwindles every day. Once the stories of the Long Night spread, Glover's people began to resent that they hid in their castle and that resentment only grew after the events in King's Landing and Glover's continued cowardice.

"So you are going to take his castle, from the inside?" Gendry wagered.

"In a way," Sansa said. "Though all I have inside Deepwood Motte are murmurs and half-truths. I need someone in there that can read and write. Someone that can pass as a commoner that can lurk through the castle and get me reliable information."

Gendry shrugged. "Can't help you there, sorry."

"Not to worry, I won't need help," Sansa looked up to the setting sun. "The sun is low, it's time to get ready."

* * *

The handmaidens of Sansa Stark dressed her slowly. They tied the grey gown, delicately embroidered with the red leaves of a weirwood tree. The steel bodice clasped around Sansa's chest, the plate was intricately cut to form weirwood branches. Her needle pendant, a memory of Arya, chained to the plate and hung freely at her waist. A handmaiden gently placed the wolf fur over Sansa's shoulder. The dark grey fur wolf was adorned with feathers from falcons found in the Vale of Arryn. The sleeve of her right arm was patterned with scales of a fish, for her Tully heritage. The dress and bodice piece was a design of Sansa herself. She wanted everyone to see that, though she was a Stark — and would always remain one, she had roots throughout Westeros. And it fulfilled that task. As she walked into the Great Hall, she saw the lords and ladies of the North stare at her in awe. She felt their eyes gaze to their queen. In the corner of the hall, behind the Northmen. Sansa spotted a trout, a falcon and a stag — Edmure Tully, Robin Arryn and Gendry Baratheon smiled as they watched her glide through the centre of the hall.

She floated through the hall toward the Weirwood Throne. As she passed her vassals, they began to kneel to her. Lord Wyman Manderly, his wife and their son, Wylis. Wylis' wife Leona and their daughters, Wynafryd and the brave and loyal Wylla. Lord Cley Cerwyn and his sister Jonelle Cerwyn. The widow, Lady Lyessa Flint. Lady Mira Forrester, Lady of Ironrath and her sister Talia. The old lord, Rodrick Ryswell and his vast family of sons and daughters — Roose, Rickard, Roger and Bethany. Lady Barbary Dustin of Barrowton and a former Ryswell. Eddara Tallhart, the Lady of Torren's Square and her cousins, Beren and Brandon, the castellans of Torrhen's Square. Berena Hornwood and her ward, young Larence Snow, the natural-born son of the now-dead Halys Hornwood. Harland Magnar, the former soldier and now Lord of the Dreadfort, or as he called it, Fort Magnar. His wife Kaelys and their newborn daughter, Arya. The Crannogmen, led by Lady Meera Reed — Blackmyre, Greengood and Fenn. The Mountain Clans came to swear fealty to the Starks once again, those who had survived the White Walkers invasion at least, which were only three — Norrey, Wull and Knott.

They all knelt for Sansa one after the other, and as she glided toward the throne she saw, standing in the corner by the hearth, Estyr. The Dornish girl wore a studded doublet, similar to what Arya would wear and in her hands, she held the blade — Widow's Wail. Estyr smiled as Sansa stepped upon the dais and turned to face the hall. The entire North knelt before her, and she felt the cold iron of Gendry's crown rest on her head. As Sansa lowered herself on the Weirwood Throne, Captain Aberdale Woodard shouted, "Hail! Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North!"

The Northmen rose and unsheathed their weapons, pointing them high. The Great Hall once again came to life. "THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

Sansa looked upon the hall and thought of those who came before. Her father, her mother. Her brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. The names of old followed, great Stark kings who ruled for thousands of years. Brandon the Builder. Brandon the Breaker. The Laughing Wolf. The Hungry Wolf. Edrick Snowbeard. Robb Stark. Jon Snow. All Kings of Winter a lineage thousands of years old, and an ancient title Sansa was now apart of.

* * *

When the sun left the earth, the feast came. And with it, songs, food and drink. The Great Hall came to life with the noise of celebration. A group of musicians played at the back on their harps, flutes and drums. Filling the hall with festivity and dance. Sansa herself danced with Wyman Manderly and his son. With Lady Lyessa, Rickard Ryswell, Lord Magnar and finally with Larence Snow. The jig went on all night, and the hall overflowed with the scents of food, wine and ale. A butchered hog rested on a single table. It's meaty, earthy odour fell throughout the room.

With the hog, came cakes and pies courtesy of Hotpie. The sweet scent of the baked goods meant that they did not last long. The lords and ladies gobbled them down along with the sweet wine, sour mead and pale ale. Sansa retired from the dance and returned herself to her throne on the dais, the great table in front of her, layered with far more food than she could ever eat. She instead sipped at Arbor Gold wine and surveyed the hall. _They are all celebrating now, but sooner or later, one of these lords will betray me. Maybe even more._ Sansa thought cynically. She was surrounded by people she thought as friends and men who swore loyalty to her, but even still she felt more alone then ever with her family gone. She was the last Stark in Winterfell and she could not let her guard down. She gazed on as Estyr danced with young Talia Forrester and Gendry Baratheon. Estyr moved quickly, and she flowed through her dance like a snake. The broad smile on her face showed Sansa that the Dornish girl seemed to enjoy the revelry. Especially the company of Talia Forrester. Suddenly, Estyr slipped on her footing and fell onto her backside, those around her gawked, and Estyr began to giggle hysterically. A laugh that reminded Sansa of Arya.

Walking around Estyr, came a thin man in a fine purple tunic. He held in his hands a wood harp and wore a cap with a colourful birds feather sticking out. He approached the dais, smiled and knelt to Sansa. The hall quieted as they noticed the event.

"Your Grace," the man said as he knelt.

"Stand," she replied. "Who might you be?"

The man rose still smiling wide. "I am called, Rymund the Rhymer."

"I've heard of you," Sansa said. "Did your mother give you that name, or was that yourself?"

The hall filled with laughter, Rymund himself chortled. "My dear mother Sloan called me Rymund. 'The Rhymer' came on its own."

Sansa smiled. "Very good. What can I do for you, Rymund the Rhymer?"

"If you'll allow me, Your Grace, to play you a song. One worthy of the beauty and grace of the Red Wolf."

"Fancy southern words won't get you far with our queen, singer," Wylis Manderely shouted.

"If that is so," Rymund said. "Then I would sing a song of your family. The Wolf in the Night, perhaps? Or my new song, Wolven Hour. A song about the Battle of Screaming Hill."

Mumble spread through the hall and Sansa took another drink of her wine, then placed the goblet on the table in front of her. "I will allow the room to choose."

"The Battle of Oxcross was a great victory for King Robb Stark," Wyman Manderly bellowed. "But I am eager to hear this 'new' song about Queen Sansa and Princess Arya's victory against the Dothraki."

"Play em both!" Bronze Yon Royce shouted.

"Aye!" agreed Lord Davos drunkenly. Then the entire hall followed suit.

Rymund looked to Sansa for an answer, she gazed at him disparagingly. "You heard them Rymund the Rhymer. Play both songs."

"Er, which should I play first?" he asked.

"First? Play them both at the same time," Sansa jested, and more laughter came from her vassals.

"See how good you are at rhyming then, eh, Rymund?" shouted Eddara Tallhart.

Rymund looked at Sansa nervously, "Er, Your Grace, I--"

She waved him off with a hand. "Play one of whichever you like, I don't care."

He nodded. "I shall sing Wolven Hour. It has yet to grace a beautiful hall such as this," Rymund bowed low, then plucked his harp. The hall fell quiet, and all that could be heard was the melancholy tune and the words Rymund sang.

_"The golden sun hung low,_

_as the omen riders rode._

_A wolf of grey, a stag of gold,_

_a trout came one and all._

_The Falcons rode upon their mounts,_

_flying down the Screaming Hill._

_The wildfire blew, the wolves came too,_

_in their hour to kill._

_So the Starks howled, and so they growled,_

_upon that hill of blood and sun._

_And now the beasts from far east,_

_came to all but one._

_Yes, the hill came alive with the howl of wolves,_

_their screams pierced the heavens._

_The Gods themselves cowered in the Seven Hells,_

_and the barbarians met their devils."_

The Great Hall fell quiet once more. All the lords and ladies looked to Sansa, as did Rymund, grinning wide. "Beautiful ballads hide torturous truths," Sansa said sternly, and the smile upon Rymund’s lips died in an instant. "They never sing of all those who sacrificed themselves for us. Like the thousands of men, women, boys and girls old enough to hold an axe or a sword, who died in the Great War. Or the hundreds of Stormlanders and Riverlands who fell to the Dothraki when they broke our shield-wall. Or when they burned alive the Knights of the Vale with wildfire. Their armour sticking to their skin, their screams of agony still in my head. Hundreds of lives lost of men from houses great and small, or a village no one will remember. Those men whose names and banners are just as important as my own." Sansa finished; solemn agreements spread across the hall, and Rymund looked at his feet, defeated. 

"But that's not what songs are, are they?" Sansa continued. "They are for ceremony, for us to remember those who came before and the events that shaped our world. The truths they hide are for ourselves, to battle in our own time. I thank you, Rymund, that was a beautiful song."

"Well said!" came a shout from the end of the hall and a cacophony of applause and clanger of cups echoed through the stone walls. Rymund smiled again at Sansa and bowed low. He turned to make his way out but was stopped by Wyman Manderly where the pair talked eagerly.

"Well said," came the voice of Estyr from beside Sansa. She turned to the girl who had a wicked smile.

"Haven't you got a dance to be failing?" Sansa asked teasing. "What are you doing up here, Estyr?"

Estyr stepped forward and attempted to lean on the great table, she moved slowly and a hand she went to use to support herself, missed its mark. She slipped, cursed, but stopped herself before she fell. Estyr held her hands out to steady herself and closed her eyes, she tried to stand still, but Sansa could see the wobble she had. After a moment, Estyr spoke slowly. "I… come… I… _have_ come to say thank you… my lady… oh, no it's Your Grace now..." Estyr began giggling to herself.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "Have you been drinking?"

Estyr caught her laughter and gave an exaggerated shake of her head. Trying to impose a serious look on her face. "No, no… I must say thanks. I never thanked Arya…"

Sansa grabbed the young girls hand and jerked her forward to attention. "You never have to. Now tell me, have you been drinking?"

“A little…” Estyr smiled shyly.

"Bloody hell. Who gave it to you?"

"Lady Mira… and Lady Lyessa… Please don't be mad at them, I asked for the wine. I like the taste."

Sansa scowled but relaxed her shoulders. "Well, no more. Have you eaten."

"Yes.”

"Good, you need some air though, and so do I. Come with me," Sansa rose from the Weirwood Throne, and the hall slowly fell silent. "Please continue the feast!" Sansa bellowed. "Drink, eat, waste not! My ward and I need some air."

Cley Cerwyn arose and lifted his mug. "You need another goblet of wine, my queen!" he roared drunkenly. The hall joined his cheer.

Sansa smiled at them, then directed her gaze to Cerwyn. "I would love another, my lord. If only you hadn't drunk it all." 

The hall filled with laughter and clamour and Sansa stepped from the throne and down the dais, as she passed Captain Aberdale, he whispered to her. "Outside, Your Grace?"

"To the godswood," Sansa commanded, "I need some peace and quiet."

* * *

The stars lit the night sky, joined by a cool breeze of spring. The wind sent small ruffles through the lake in the godswood, gently blew Sansa's grey coronation dress and stirred the red leaves of the weirwood tree. Sansa's guardsmen flanked the godswood and stood by its entrance. Standing tall in the breeze. Estyr stood beside her, gazing at the face cut into the tree.

"Never seen a tree like this before," Estyr said with wonder. Though she had lived in Winterfell for near three months, Estyr had never set foot in the godswood, despite seeing the tree's red leaves hanging high above Winterfell's walls.

"There are many like this in the North," Sansa said. "The ones in the south were all cut down."

"That's sad," Estyr said, and she grasped onto Sansa dress to steady herself.

"You okay?"

Estyr looked up to Sansa with an unsteady gaze. "I'm okay… just a bit…”

"Tipsy?" Sansa offered.

"Yeah," Estyr giggled. "I like your dress, it's beautiful."

"Thank you, I designed it myself. Do you like dresses?"

"Sometimes, if they're needed. I prefer pants and doublet."

 _Like Arya, and not like her._ Sansa mused happily.

"This is where Arya killed the Night King?" Estyr asked with wonderment.

"Yes," Sansa answered. "Right where we stand, we found her by Bran's side. A big pile of shattered ice by her feet." Sansa notice the broad smile that come upon Estyr's face and the look of wonder and awe.

"I hope I get to do something that great," Estyr said.

"That's why they call her the Hero of Winterfell. But many people did heroic things that night, like Theon."

"Who's _Theon_?"

"If it weren't for him, Bran would have died far earlier," Sansa replied. "Theon was a good man." _And my brother._

Estyr shrugged then walked away slowly and picked up a short branch of the weirwood tree and twirled it about her like a sword. She turned back to face Sansa, then gazed up to the skies. She pointed the branch high. "Know what that constellation is?" She asked Sansa.

Sansa followed her pointing branch to a pattern of stars. "Can't say I do."

"It's the Eye of the Ice Dragon," Estyr said, smiling. 

Sansa's mind went back to the Long Night and the undead dragon that lay in Winterfell after the battle. Jon's tales about facing it down, thinking he would die. And the stories of all others telling of the scaled beast with icy blue eyes, shooting blue fire from its mouth. Sansa closed her eyes, breathed deep and held the memories back.

She looked back at Estyr who was twirling the branch once more, sauntering away from Sansa. "Who taught about the constellations?"

"Allyria and Ned," Estyr said.

 _Ned!_ The name of her father unnerved Sansa more than the memory of the Long Night did. Her eyes paced nervously around the ground, as a flash of her father's face came to her, with his warm smile. Then came his severed head, by the hands of Ilyn Payne. Sansa began to breathe quickly, and her hands shook. She clasped them together and gripped them tight, rubbing her palms.

She felt the presence of Estyr beside her again. "Are you okay?" Estyr asked.

"I'm fine," Sansa lied. "Who are Allyria and Ned?"

Estyr suddenly stepped back, then turned away from Sansa, trying and failing to hide an anxious look. "Uhm, my mother… and a friend."

Sansa tilted her head, curious at the sudden unease Estyr now had. Though a sudden gust of wind above her head came and the weirwood tree croaked. "Fuck!" Sansa cursed, stepping back from the weirwood. Estyr began giggling again, not hiding her amusement. Sansa studied the tree and finally saw what caused the disturbance.

A black raven had landed on a low branch that hung just above Sansa's head. The raven's beady eyes seemed to study both Estyr and Sansa, and it squawked at them eagerly.

 _Caw!_ Called the bird.

"I think it likes you," Estyr said with a giggle and began to walk away, twirling her broken branch around again.

"Well, I don't like it," Sansa rebutted. The suddenness of the event shocked the anxiety out of Sansa.

 _Caw!_ The raven called again. And Sansa tipped her head when she spotted, tied to the bird's leg, a piece of parchment rolled tightly. The raven stared at her. _Caw!_

"Dark wings, dark words," Sansa mumbled her mother's words beneath her breath. A black raven carrying a note, but did not fly to the rookery in Winterfell, only straight to godswood, right next to Sansa, gawking at her. This bird brought to Sansa's mind of her little brother's dark blue tunic, and the ravens embroidered upon it. She turned back to see Estyr, who was attempting to stand on a rock on one leg, her arms out trying to balance herself. But the wine in her young body made her tasks much more difficult. 

"Estyr," Sansa called. "Can you go and play on the other side of the lake? I would like some peace to pray."

Estyr jumped from the rock and spun around to Sansa. "I'm not _playing_ , I'm practicing the drills Arya taught me."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Well can you _practice_ on the other side of the lake?"

"Of course, _Your Grace_ ," Estyr attempted a curtsy but stumbled. She laughed at herself, then began skipping away to the other side of the lake. Sansa only shook her head as the girl skipped off.

_Caw!_

Sansa turned on the raven. "Are you done!?" she whispered menacingly.

 _Caw! Caw!_ It responded.

"Gods, I am talking to a bloody raven," Sansa cursed then stepped forward and began to untie the twine from the bird's leg. It stood patiently as she did and as soon as the parchment came free, the raven shook its head violently then sprung from the branch and flew northward.

Sansa watched it fly away, then drew her attention down to the parchment. She felt the heavy words that marked it and with them, knowledge that she knew she would be better off not knowing. But the life of a queen carried many burdens and the North, it seems, would not be her only concern. As she unrolled the parchment, she knew that after she read her brothers message, she would need to retire to her solar. With a fire roaring in the hearth, and a goblet of strong wine. She looked down to its words, and she immediately recognised Bran's handwriting, bold and elegant.

_Sansa_

_There is no doubt you have already discerned who writes this. I write of past events no other should know for years to come. And they are of the girl you have now made your ward. As you know shortly after Daenerys Targaryen’s arrival to Westeros, and the death of the Sand Snakes, Dorne struggled with civil war. After many skirmishes, the Yronwoods came out as victors and claimed Sunspear for themselves and crowned themselves, Princes of Dorne. Though strife still exists in the country, small battles and skirmishes happen all around, and the Yronwoods have weak grasp over their subjects. They have become exceedingly desperate in their attempt to maintain control and Olyvar Yronwood’s violence with his vassals has become an issue of great concern. Their desperation has evolved further after they learned of the existence of a child that could threaten their rule._

_A child born of lust and hatred, birthed in Sunspear, raised in Starfall. A child whose very existence threatens a kingdom. A child whose name is not known to those who seek her, yet will be found out. The girl will be hunted, by warriors, spies and the most dangerous — Faceless Men._

_I understand the recedence you will have, but you must keep what I am about to reveal, to yourself and continue to raise Estyr as your ward as Arya asked. Let that be the common knowledge. Estyr may be young, brash and impulsive, but under your guidance, she has the chance to become something great. I wanted her to go to Winterfell, not only for her safety but because I know of no better person to teach her the ways of a good ruler than you._

_Your ward who you believe to be Estyr Yronwood is in truth, the fourth child of Lady Mellario of Norvos, and Doran Nymerous Martell, Prince of Dorne. She is Estyr Nymerous Martell, the last living Martell, and the rightful Princess of Dorne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Estyr. Questions are welcome about her and my thought process, but the circumstances of her birth, how/why she was hidden, etc, etc are explored in future chapters.
> 
> I'll also say this, Sansa made some decisions and said some things in the chapter. There are reasons behind them... :) There also is subtle hints at guilt and memory spattered throughout.


	22. The Sister of Sand and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A castle under siege and a southerner proves their worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another big chapter that is also different from my usual format. Please let me know if it is easy to understand and your thoughts in general. :)

"Uncle," said the girl. "How many stars are in the sky?"

"Thousands and thousands. More than you or I could ever count," the uncle replied.

"They are beautiful. Father says learned men use special lenses to gaze at them in great towers, " the girl told him with admiration.

"Indeed. The maesters of the Citadel study the stars, and House Dayne's ancestral sword was made from the heart of a fallen star. They say it has magical properties," her uncle emphasised the last words with a fantastical tone, waving the fingers on his hands toward her and laughing.

The girl's eyes went wide. "Will I ever get to see that sword? Oh please, uncle, can you take me to see it? I've never stepped foot outside of these walls!"

The uncle smiled. "Perhaps, after I have fulfilled my task in the Capital."

The girl stared dejectedly "Why do you go there?”

"To partake in the revelry, drinking, lies and whoring of our great king's wedding."

"Joffrey Baratheon?"

"So they tell us that's his name," the uncle waved a hand. "Bah, I have other reasons to go, more important reasons."

"Be careful. I want you to come back."

"I intend to, sweet niece. I will not die in that rancid city."

"You're overconfident," the girl teased.

"Confidence is good," the uncle said with a laugh.

The girl giggled at her uncle, but the moment of laughter and joy was broken by a distant noise. A far off chime, followed by a metallic hum. Then came another, closer: a deep boom, a chime, a hum.

"Uncle," the girl said nervously.

"Hmm?"

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what child?”

"Bells."

She spun around to find the noise, though found nothing but darkness. The metallic resonance echoed around her. The sound of city bells, one, now two. Four. Seven. They rang, clamoured and boomed. The eerie noise made the girl uneasy. 

"Uncle!" she called out and turned. But he was no longer there, and she was no longer in the Water Gardens. She stood in the red dirt of a city street. Pale red stone walls of buildings surrounded her, and the charred skeletal remains of a body lay beside her, where her uncle once was. Then a roar. A gurgling, beastly howl that shook the skies. Then came the screams of men, women and children as they ran by her in horror — the red street filled with commoners in rags and soldiers in lion crested, crimson armour. The girl felt a hand grab her.

"Come, darling! With me!” came a strongly accented voice, a distinctive, exotic drawl. A voice she remembered. They ran together, and the girl looked up to the woman who had taken her by the arm. She wore a violet dress and was tall, with slender olive skin and long black hair that tumbled around her shoulders. Her face held high cheekbones and rosy lips, and star-like violet eyes that lit up the day as vividly as the brightest sun. She was beautiful. The girl knew her face and strangely, seeing the star-eyed woman made her sad.

They continued to run up the street that seemed never to end. The roar of the beast in the skies came again. An earth-shattering screech that cracked apart the clouds. The girl looked up to see the scaled monster flying towards them, opening its terrifying jaws as if to eat the world. It roared, and fire began building in its mouth, suddenly the star-eyed woman's grip came loose, and they lost each other in the crowd of people.

A cascade of fire came bellowing up the street, destroying all it touched. The girl instinctively ran to the other side of the street, dodging like a cat through the crowd fleeing in terror from the beast. Then came the roaring blaze and she jumped behind a building as the screams of the innocent died by the hellfire that consumed them. The girl covered her ears as the flames burned the world. She screamed to block the noise of searing fire, explosions and death. When she took her hands from her ears, the world was eerily silent, all except for the cries of a young boy, and emotional shouts of a man looking for his loved ones. The girl rose to her feet, trembling with fear, her hair covered with ash. She stepped out onto the street to see charred bodies lay on the ash-fallen dirt ground. The buildings around her melted and collapsed. 

From across the street came the star-eyed woman, walking with a limp. Her dark hair a mess of ash and blood, her violet dress covered in residue and burned at the fringes. The star-eyed woman looked down the street, and the girl followed her eyes. They each saw the ravagers coming — burly men with thick beards, wearing armour. A wolf emblazoned on their plate, or a falcon painted on their shields. A dozen barbarians on powerful horses hollering wildly, the bells in their braided hair jingling ghostly as they galloped. And with them, killers in black armour with spiked helms and spears. They all came slaughtering those who had survived the fire, cutting down soldiers pleading for mercy, dragging away women and girls. Mercilessly killing and butchering. 

The girl looked back to the star-eyed woman, who called to her, screaming and gesticulating for the girl to flee. But as she did, the killer's in black armour came closer, the star-eyed women saw them and tried to run away, though it was too late. The girl saw a man in black armour, his dark onyx eyes searing with murderous intent as a spear flew from hands, and pierced through the back of the star-eyed woman.

The woman, the girl once called _mother_ , fell to the dirt. The spear through her heart and blood pouring from her mouth. Her star-like violet eyes, suddenly paler. The girl cried, screamed wildly and the beast roar came once more, as the skies fell upon them.

* * *

She awoke with a heavy sweat on her brow, her body shaking, a pounding heart and a single bell resonating through her ears. She sat up quickly and breathed in the fresh air slowly, trying to calm her fluttering soul, trying to remember where she was, and who she was. The world, ever so gradually, became more lucid. The bell manifested beyond her mind, ringing louder, reverberating around the bailey of the castle she called home. And then came the shuffling feet of people, as they scurried along the dirt grounds. She heard a man's voice directing them. "GET TO YA HOMES! SEEK SHELTER! HURRY NOW!" 

"Papa!" Ally called out. "Stefon!" No response came from the dank hut she resided in. She guessed he was already at the stables. Shooting up from her bedding furs, she threw on her rough-spun cloak, a gift from her father. It was brown, dirty and full of holes, but it did enough to protect from the Northern chill. It covered a dull blue tunic, also full of holes and rough-spun pants. She lifted her bedding furs and pulled out the leather thong from underneath and pulled it over her head. The small pouch that hung from the thong jingled as she stuffed it beneath her ragged clothes and shifted her heavy cloak over her shoulders. As she left her father’s thatch hut, outside was found to be sombre with a cold misty chill of morning. Dull silver-grey clouds rolled high with the threat of snow, and the crowd of people came fast before her. They raced across the bailey in a frenzy, carrying their children in their hands or whatever valuables they could grasp. She saw the innkeep his arms full of pitchers of wine, ale or mead heading towards the longhall. The butcher, casually walking across the bailey carrying a slump of venison over his shoulder. And the smithy, slugging around a handful of crude axes and swords without much enthusiasm. Soldiers of the castle, or bannermen from House Woods and Branch with bow, pike, half-spear or weathered axe marched to ready, formed together beneath their banners or entered the two towers that stood guard above the palisade wall. Then amongst the fray, Ally spotted a young, dirty haired boy running by her. It was the butcher's boy.

"Markus!" she called to him. 

The boy slid to a stop and spun around. "Ally? What you doing?"

She ran up to him, skipping past the crowds of people, brushing her dark hair back. "What's going on? Why's everyone in a panic?"

"Ain't you hear?"

"No, I ain't hear."

Markus shook his head. "The queens brought an army! Come to siege the castle."

 _The queen?_ Thought Ally, _today?_ "She really?"

"Yeah, ma says she'll send a thousand flaming arrows and burn the castle down."

 _She'll do no such thing_. But Ally did not know that. She did not even know the queen nor seen her face. Ally was just a poor girl who had come to this castle a month ago, seeking her long lost father. A stable master by the name of Stefon, who had a bit too much extra-curricular fun during his short stay in Pentos in his whaling days. Though the guardsmen she saw walking towards the towers, she did know. 

"Gerrad!" she yelled. The hulking brute of a man stopped suddenly and looked towards whoever called. When he spotted Ally, he dropped his head and shook it tirelessly. Ally grabbed Markus by the arm and together, ran towards Gerrad.

"Can you take us up on the wall-walks?" she asked him with a pant.

"What for?" he demanded with his throaty groan. "Yous twos should be back in ya homes, or tryna get into the longhall."

"We just wanna look, Gerrad. I need a look."

The brute soldier gave her a cautious eye. "Ya need to, eh? Is anything gonna happen?"

"If it does, you’ll know when."

He studied her with a stupid look on his face. "Oh, fuck. Alright then, stay with me." Together they followed Gerrad up one of the stone and wooden towers, running up its slim, winding stairs until they came out to the wooden wall-walks. A dozen soldiers stood there, watching the army out in the field. Gerrad pushed into the centre of the walk, Ally and Markus squished in beside him, standing on their tiptoes to look over the timber trunks.

Across to the south-east, in a field of tall grass before the Wolfswood began, stood an army. Shield and sword. Axe, spear and pike — bannerman to the queen, standing tall. Ally guessed maybe two thousand men were in that army, and she observed the sigils flying above them. House Bole, a small house of the Wolfswood, once sworn to master’s of this castle, but they joined the queen rather than face her wrath. By their side was the ironwood sigil of Forrester, another house once sworn to this castle and its family. Next was the three sentinel trees of Tallhart. The black battleaxe of Cerwyn. And flowing high above them all — the crowned direwolf of Stark.

"Thought she might’a brought the whole North," Markus blurted. 

"I thought she would’ve brought some siege weapons," Gerrad added.

 _She won't need any. She won’t even need the army_. Ally believed. Then came the sound of horses racing across the bailey. Ally turned around and watched Lord Robett Glover, the Master of Deepwood Motte riding upon his black destrier. Beside him was his son Gawen Glover, a gaunt-faced young man. Following them came four guardsmen, the men most loyal to Lord Robett. Ally knew them all, she had to. There was Clyn, youngest of the guards a man who seemed very kind when Ally talked to him. Tobin, who's uncle, was the smith of the castle. Then Alec and Kay, brothers. They rode hard, their horses creating a mist of, mud and grass behind them. 

Deepwood Motte was an old wooden fortress upon a hill, surrounded by the dark and foreboding Wolfswood. The bailey circled the base of the hill and where the stables, paddocks, smithy, the old well and the sheepfold were. An earthen dike and palisade logs protected the bailey with a single drawbridge and gate at the south-east side of the hill. The two towers and wall-walks between them, where Ally now stood, rose above the gate and drawbridge as tall wooden sentries. Located high on the flat peak of the hill was the longhall, large and resolute. A watchtower sat next to it towering fifty feet higher, and its bell was still ringing. The standard of House Glover, a fist on a scarlet field, bristled above the watchtower.

Ally’s eyes followed Lord Glover as he and his escort rode underneath the wall-walks, through the gate and across the bridge, out to the field to meet the besiegers. She drew her eyes once again toward that army in the distance. Looking at its centre and squinting her dark eyes, regarding an elegant white horse, dressed in a fine caparison of grey trimmed with white. Upon that horse sat a figure in white, with long red hair and a glint of polished iron upon it. Surrounding the figure was lords, ladies and an array of heavily armed guards. Suddenly, another banner rose below the crowned direwolf. Its velvet material showed a deep purple and a sigil of a white rising sun, with a shooting star above it. 

Ally grinned and turned to Markus. "Oi, you seen me father?"

"He's at the stables, probably," Markus replied.

"I gots to go," she blurted. Before either Markus or Gerrad could object, Ally flew from them, running across the wooden wall-walk and skipping down the towers winding stairs.

The bell’s ringing slowly began to die down as Ally ran through the bailey, scarce of small folk now that they had fled to their homes or retreated to the longhall and watchtower. The ground crumbled beneath her feet, and she could feel the dew and wet mud seep into her thin leather shoes. She went by the smithy who closed his door hard, sprinted by the butcher who was cleaving apart meat from bone, utterly disinterested in the events of the morning. People scurried inside their thatch-roofed homes as Ally ran by them panting harder and harder as she followed the bailey around the base of the hill. Finally, the stables came in the distance built right against the palisade wall near the paddock where a dozen horses galloped freely. Inside the stable, a black pony chewed at a bale of hay, a courser jostle around in the grass and a bay filly neighed happily as her father was saddling it.

"Pa!" Ally greeted him breathlessly.

He spun about. "Hmm?" he groaned with a grimace. The old man's grey, receding hair and thick grey eyebrows did not do him any favours with the constant scowl he seemed to wear.

She took a deep breath from the long run she just had and said plainly. "It's time.”

"Aye, thought so," he replied. He let go of the saddle and walked toward her. "You sure her men are gonna be out there?"

"She said they would. She wouldn't lie."

"Ugh," her father groaned again. "Come on then."

Ally followed her father around the back, to a small gap between the stable and the palisade wall. She glanced behind her, making sure none were looking at them, as her father began to remove the wooden stakes of the palisade placed into the earth. They had made the task easier, thanks to the last month of slowly loosening the logs, day by day. After making certain no one watched them, Ally assisted Stefon when she could, lifting the trunks of oak and sentinel tree and helping her father place them across the earthen dike on the outside of the wall. Once two logs had been placed, Ally stood on the outside, looking out to the thick Wolfswood. She cupped her hands around her mouth and howled.

_Awooooo_

Moments later within the wisps of pale mist threaded through the woods, a gravely howl called in response, and then they came out from behind the sentinels, oaks and black briers of the Wolfswood. One hundred men skulked from the dense woods in heavy plate emblazoned with a crowned direwolf. 

A third log fell across the dike, and then a hand clasped her shoulder hard, spinning her around. "Ya owe me," said Stefon, gripping her tightly.

"Not doing this for your country?" Ally replied sardonically.

"Piss off with that, this ain't even your country girl. I was promised reward."

Ally shoved his hand off her and proceeded to remove the thong about her neck. She thrust it into the old man's chest and gave him a despised look. "Take it, and get out of here. Go back home. It will be over soon."

"Wait on," Stefon said. "What's ya name, girl?"

"Ally," she responded disparagingly.

"I know that ain't ya real name."

"I'm not supposed to tell you my real name."

"Piss with that. I deserved to know who’s been living under my roof this last month. Whose been skulking about Deepwood and sending off letters to singers and riders. Who I've been breaking my back for taking these fucking logs out of the ground. Tell me."

Stefon was right, Ally knew. He had done this for coin but at great risk. What harm would come if he knew her real name? The siege would be over soon.

She sighed and gazed at him numbly. "Estyr. My name is Estyr."

* * *

The sun had come to the grey castle walls and with it, the crispness of morning. She had just finished her early session of water dancing with Syllo, dancing across the sodden grounds of the training yard. Doing her best to perfect the stances, thrust, drills and yet more that Arya taught her. _Swift and deadly. Quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake._ Now she walked passed Winterfell’s sept and into the central courtyard, her sky blue tunic and brown pants damp with sweat and her boots squelching the short grass beneath her. This had been Estyr’s home for almost half a year, and she had liked it, for the most part. The days went by consisting of training with Syllo in the mornings and the evening's she practised Arya's drills on her own. Throughout the days, she had lessons with Maester Wolkan, he would teach her writing, reading and sums. The coat-of-arms of all the Great Houses of Westeros, including the histories and seats of Westeros, and lately Essos too. Estyr already knew how to read and write, she had received lessons before she fled to King's Landing, and she knew the sigils of all the Great Houses in Dorne. Still, she never said this to people, no one need know who she really was and she had already came to close to the Queen finding that out, she needed to be more vigilant with what she said. Her father had said not to trust anyone that isn't a Martell or a Dayne. So she kept her prior education a secret and Maester Wolkan just thought she was an excellent student, and the queen made it clear that Estyr's education was mandatory. 

Every other day she would practice horse with Jorge, learning to control her chestnut, Viper. Making the avid animal respond better to her commands and the reigns. Edric Dayne had taught her to ride on a white pony, trotting around the paddock inside Starfall. She had thought she did well. Ned would often tell her as much. However, after riding on Viper, she knew that the white pony in Starfall had just been well trained, and well mannered. Those were her days in Winterfell, training, learning, riding. She would wander the castle in the downtime during the day, play hop frog with the smith's daughter, or talk to Hotpie in the kitchens. At night, she would stare at the stars trying to find the constellations that Allyria and Ned Dayne had showed her — the Ice Dragon, the King's Crown. The Stallion. 

Despite all she had in Winterfell, she yearned for more, as she had in her previous life. In Dorne, she would run with her handmaidens through the terra-cotta walls of Sunspear, sneak through its winding alleys with Trystane and wander the bazaars speaking to people buying all sorts of odds and ends. Or she would play in the Water Gardens when they visited the palace. Even when she fled to Starfall, she did not want for adventure. She would swim with Allyria in the Torrentine. Watch Ned train with swords, Climb the Palestone Tower. Roam through Starfall's bright gardens and sneak through the castle’s white halls hiding from Ned and Allyria and the guardsmen alike. The House Dayne guards of Starfall used to call her, "Estyr Littleboot." And sometimes, when she behaved, Ned would let her look at the legendary sword, Dawn. She would grin stupidly as she stared in wonder at the beautiful white blade, then sadden when she remembered Oberyn telling her about it. 

King's Landing offered just as much, at least before the dragon came. She would wander the streets with Allyria and go into shops just to look at what they had. They would watch the mummers shows. See the ships at the docks. Visit the ruins of the Great Sept and the Dragonpit and do more sneaking yet; nabbing sweet cakes and pies from the baker's stalls. Winterfell though had little similar to her life in Dorne or King's Landing. The old grey castle had a rugged beauty about it, much like the Northmen that lived there. Though there was no flowing river she could swim in, aside from the hot springs and the small pool in the godswood that she rarely visited. There were no grand bazaars or palace of water gardens. No shows for mummers or great vendors selling their wares. Winterfell was cold and dull, it had a glass garden where fruits and vegetables grow, and sometimes pretty flowers, like the icy blue Winter Rose. Though there was nothing Estyr could do there, but look and smell its earthy scent.

Beneath the castle had the crypts that she had not seen. She yearned to go down there and explore, but she was not allowed in the crypts for reasons no one told her. The inside of the castle, however, was a labyrinth of winding grey halls leading to keeps and towers throughout. Though her time in adventuring through them quickly became dull as she was always on her own and was never playing games or hiding from someone like she did in Starfall. Everyone inside the castle was always too busy, especially the queen. The last time there was any sort of fun in Winterfell, was the feast after the queen's coronation. Estyr remembered that night vividly, the sweet taste of wine, the songs the singer sang, her dance with the pretty Talia Forrester with her light hair and fair eyes. And her moment with the handsome Gendry Baratheon. His deep blue eyes, his powerful, burly arms. The glint of sweat on them and the twitch of his muscles as he held her in their dance. Finally, she recalled happily, her quiet time of peace with the queen out in the godswood.

That revelry and moments of joy and harmony only made her long for more, though the longer she stayed in Winterfell, the more out of place she felt. She would often catch a glaring eye of some small folk, or the whispers of the servants — despite being a ward under the protection of the queen, the people did not seem to trust her. She believed it was merely because she was Dornish and her strange Dornish accent seemed to make that worse. Even her Braavosi dancing master, Syllo, got strange looks. The Northmen, it seemed, did not trust outsiders. Though when she spoke to Hotpie, he seemed to love it here, despite the cold, and he would often say how nice the people were. Estyr only believed that was because he made sweet cakes, loaves of bread and pies that everyone seemed to love. She was not the only southerner in Winterfell, but she was the only Dornishmen, and likely the only Dornishmen in the entire North. That made her feel alone.

Some nights in the castle would prove more difficult than others. Estyr would find her mind, trailing off with memories, though she considered them nightmares. The dragon roars would come first, then the screams. The flames, the blood and the scorched bodies all flurried through. Her heart would rage at the visions of slaughter that befell her mind. And her soul would shriek when those visions showed Allyria, the beautiful Dayne, with her violet eyes and high cheekbones that lay dead in a pool of her lifeblood. The Unsullied spear through her back, and the dark onyx eyes of the man who delivered it there. When these nights came, Estyr's body shook with anxiety, fear, hatred and anger. She lay in her chambers — Arya's old chambers the queen had given her — throwing herself around restless. Oft nights she would retreat from the room and sneak down Winterfell's winding halls out to the yards where she would unleash her fury on one of the many training dummies that littered the courtyard. Grabbing a wooden or a dull bladed sword and letting each blow thrown, temper her rage. Hating herself that they murdered Oberyn while she danced in the water gardens then fled to Starfall while the Sand Snakes butchered her father and her brother. Resenting that Allyria died while she stood, doing nothing. With each whack on the straw figure, tears would come unbidden to her eyes, though she let them flow. _They all died! And what for!_ More and more tears would come, the warmth of them streaming down her cheeks, chilling under cold Northern night. Estyr would sob and wail as she beat the straw dummy over, and over until she was so exhausted she could barely walk back to her chambers and finally rest.

Last night was such a night of restless despair and anger. Her eyes were heavy with sleep as she strolled through the castle yards, a hand resting on the hilt of Starfall sheathed at her waist in its supple leather scabbard. Starfall was the shortsword Arya gave her, Estyr carried it with her always, and whenever she looked at it, it reminded her of Arya Stark's smile and her words, "I will always be by your side." Estyr spent the late morning trying to find the queen. She was not in her solar or the library. She had not been in the Great Hall either. Estyr had not seen nor spoken to the queen all morning, in fact, the last proper conversation she had with the queen was in the godswood on the coronation night. Since then, the queen had seemingly become distant, often busy with her duties. Speaking to her vassals. Attending court to see to the complaints of small folk or the lord of a holdfast. Overlooking the repair of the North. Organising shipments of timber to Essos, King's Landing or the Wall. Or in discreet meetings with Maester Wolkan, Lord Cerwyn or Lady Forrester.

There were times Estyr tried to speak to the queen, she would try during supper, but if the queen were not already eating inside her chambers, she would be in the Great Hall feasting at the great table with a Lord or Lady she had invited to Winterfell. When Estyr did get a moment with the queen, she would only respond curtly, with a "yes" or "no," then become awash in her duties again. It all made Estyr feel more and more alone. She wanted an end to it, and she hoped today would bring that. So after exhausting other places in Winterfell, where she thought the queen would be, Estyr followed the red leaves of the large weirwood, that hung high above Winterfell. Her hopes grew, for as she came closer to the archway leading to the godswood, she spotted two of the queen’s guards, standing at the threshold — Fat Fred and Walter.

" _Lil' girl_ ," Fat Fred said when she came close. "What are you doing about?"

"I'm looking for the queen, _Fat Fred_ ," Estyr replied.

Fat Fred gritted his teeth and shifted his weight uncomfortably. "You gotta stop calling me that, girl."

"Stop calling me little girl."

"You are a lil' girl ."

"And you're fat."

Walter stifled a laugh. "She got you there, Fred."

"Shut up! I ain't fat. It's just all you are skinny!"

"If you say so," Estyr said disinterestedly. "Is the queen in the godswood."

"Aye, she is. But she's busy," Walter answered.

 _Apparently she's always busy_. "I need to speak to her."

"And I need to take a shit," Fred told her derisively. "You don't see me complaining."

"You're complaining now. Please, it's urgent."

Fat Fred sighed impatiently, but Estyr gave him a kind smile, and he relented. "Fine then, come with me. If I get in trouble for disturbing the queen, then it's on you!"

She followed him through the archway and into the godswood, passing by the grey-green sentinel trees, tall soldier pines and thick ironwoods. White rays of sun gleamed through the dense canopy showering the earth with spots of light amongst the shade. They walked across the trail of humus and moss that led to the centre where the heart tree and the black pool lied. The water trickled in the lake as Estyr strolled by and finally, they came to the weirwood tree, with its strange face. Three figures stood by it, Maester Wolken, Captain Aberdale and the queen with her flowing, vibrant red hair.

" … in the castle, someone that can bloody read and write. Someone—” the queen suddenly stopped speaking to her advisers and turned to face Fat Fred and Estyr walking up behind them.

"Sorry to bother you, Your Grace," Fat Fred said. "But Estyr here says she needs to speak to you urgently."

The queen's sharp blue eyes studied Estyr for a long moment then she lifted her gaze to Fat Fred. "How is Lyra, Fred? Feeling better, I hope."

Fred looked happily surprised. "Oh, she is, Your Grace!"

"I'm glad, give her my regards. You may all leave us. We will continue this discussion later."

Estyr stood silent and still as the three men began to leave. Captain Aberdale gave her a warm smile and patted her shoulder as he passed. She was wary of the Northern soldiers, though she had heard that Aberdale was liked by many, including the queen and her sister, though she found out that was because he was not a pushover and was loyal to the Starks without question. Shortly after arriving at Winterfell, it was Aberdale that showed Estyr around the castle and to her new chambers. During that time, she asked him if he had joined the sack of King's Landing. He said he did, but that he only attacked Lannister soldiers. Estyr was not sure if she should believe him, but she liked him regardless.

The queen had turned back to face the heart tree, Estyr stepped beside and stared longingly at her. The queen wore a dark grey gown with white trimmings, a black breastplate tight around her waist and chest. And a grey wolf fur cloak that swayed in concert with trees of the godswood. The queen did not wear her crown, but her hair fell gracefully below her shoulders and over her cloak. The more Estyr looked at her, the more she reminded her of Allyria. With her tall, slender figure. High cheekbones. Piercing bright eyes. Regal grace and exceptional beauty. Though the queen had a hardness about her, in the way she spoke and carried herself and a pensive face that seemed as if to weigh every decision she made, large or small. She was only in her twenties, yet the queen's life experience had given her a wisdom far beyond her years.

Quiet was the woods, aside from the song of birds, the sway of leaves or the trickle of the black pool. The queen broke the silence further as she said sharply. "Urgent is it? Yet you don't speak."

"Sorry, Your Grace," said Estyr timidly. "I just, I just—”

"What, you just what?"

"Why do you ignore me?" Estyr finally blurted.

The queen turned on Estyr, with an incredulous look. "Beg pardon?"

"We've hardly talked for months! You deliberately avoid me!"

"I have been busy, Estyr.”

"Bull!" Estyr stamped her foot, irately. "You're not always busy! You just shove me off to Wolkan or Jorge or Syllo to deal with me, then leave me trapped in this castle with nothing to do! I want to see the North! I want more!"

The queen did not immediately respond at first. She just stood, regarding Estyr, and as her face slowly became irritated, Estyr began to regret what she had said. "Perhaps you would prefer to be living back on the streets of King's Landing. I can arrange it."

"No, I didn't mean—”

"I am terribly sorry that you live in a castle. In chambers that belong to a Princess of Winterfell. With warm food in your belly, a maester to give you lessons, a dancing master and your own horse!"

That only made Estyr feel terrible, and suddenly tears came to her eyes. "My queen, I—”

"Do know how many thousands of people would give all they own just to have a bed like yours and warm food?"

"I do, I just—”

"My sister went out of her way to help you, and so did I. You have no idea what I've risked bringing you here, and now you have the gall to complain!"

"I didn't…” tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to speak. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then tell me how you meant it," the queen demanded.

Estyr wiped her face harshly. "It's just… I'm grateful for everything — for the lessons and the training. I like Wolkan and Syllo and Jorge. But they're not, they're—”

"They're not what?"

"They aren't you! They aren’t Arya!" Estyr sobbed. "You ignore me, Arya’s gone, and you act like I don’t exist, and I don’t know why! I do the same things every day, thinking that I did something wrong or that you grew sick of me. Some nights I can’t even sleep, and I can’t talk to you about it. I'm sick of it all! I want Winterfell to be my home, but I’m afraid it never will be. The people here don’t even like me."

“That isn’t true—”

“How would you know? You’re never around!” Estyr spat.

The queen stood quiet, her hard face, slowly becoming gentle. Though Estyr looked to the ground, shaking her head at what had just happened. Suddenly and without a word, the queen turned and left. She walked out of the godswood, the streams of sunlight brightening her red hair. Estyr fell back against the heart tree and cried.

On the morrow, Estyr sat in Winterfell's library glancing around the large room with its small hearth, trying to imagine how Arya snuck through it with all the dead around. Estyr thought she might have been able to do it too, but she would never know. And that's a good thing, she deemed. The library smelled of old leather and musty wood. Light snow fell outside the windows and Maester Wolkan sat next to her. He was timid but incredibly kind and smart. Easy to tease but fascinating to talk to. In the time between their lesson, Wolkan would regale Estyr with life as a student in the Citadel, or his period of serving the Boltons. 

A book lay open in front of them on the wide library table. The pages showed a detailed map of Essos, though the names of the cities and any location of import were blank. This afternoon would consist of more lessons of the Free Cities. 

Wolkan tapped on the open book. "Again, this city?"

Estyr scratched her head. "Um… Pentos! It is governed by Magisters and a Prince. But they can’t have an army or hire any sellswords because Braavos won’t let them."

Wolkan grinned. "Good and Braavos?”

Estyr leaned over the table and pointed to where the lagoon city of Braavos was. “Here, it's richest of the Free Cities. Ruled by the Sea Lord of Braavos, and it’s where Arya used to live.” Estyr smiled to herself at that knowledge. “I’d like to go there someday.”

“Maybe you will! Now here?” Wolkan tapped again on the page.

“The river Rhoyne.”

“And this city up here?” Wolkan pointed to a city that laid on the banks of a tributary river than ran off the Rhoyne.

“Um.. oh," Estyr knew it started with an 'N', but the name lost her. "Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come, you know this," he tapped the map again. 

Estyr racked her mind, but she could not find the answer, and she was beginning to grow frustrated. She decided to change the subject. "Maester, why am I learning about the Free Cities?”

"Because the queen wants you to?" He replied.

 _Of course she does, but why damn it?_ "Why, maester?"

"I don't know, Estyr. It's what she asked of me."

"Do you know the queen well?" She blurted.

"Come now, Estyr, this is not apart of your lessons."

"I know, but tell me anyway. Please? Please, please, please!"

Wolkan smiled and gingerly placed his pointer on the table. "I know the queen as well as she wants me to know her. She is a very busy woman."

Busy? _I'm starting to hate that word_. Estyr had told the queen how she felt and what did she get in return? She left her alone in that old wood next to that tree with its stupid face. All the stories she had heard about the queen and what she went through, what she did, made Estyr think so highly of her. But she found only to be disappointed. The queen may have suffered a lot, but she was a bitch.

A rasp came at the library door, and it heralded Captain Aberdale. "Estyr girl, the queen needs to speak to you," he said — his massive beard bouncing with every word.

"Well, tell her I'm busy !"

"She won't appreciate that."

"I don't care! I don't appreciate her. Tell her that too," Estyr shot up from her chair and marched off to the hearth, crossing her arms as she stood gazing into the fire.

Aberdale stepped beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. "She told me you might act like this. Come now, she awaits you down in the crypts."

 _The crypts?_ "I… I thought I wasn't allowed in the crypts."

"Guess you are now, come with me." The crypts beneath Winterfell housed the old King's of Winter. Its winding labyrinth of tombs and tunnels sparked Estyr's curiosity. But she was determined not to give in.

She shook her head. "No, I don't want to go."

Aberdale laughed. "It doesn’t matter what you want. Come now." He guided her gently away from the hearth, and ever so reluctantly, Estyr followed him.

The ironwood door to the crypts stood ominously beneath the archway. Two direwolf statues flanked it, and as Aberdale opened the heavy door, it creaked and groaned like a living thing. Estyr accompanied him down the winding stairs into the dark abyss. Fortunately, every few feet became lit by sconces mounted on the walls, however, the lower they went, the colder it grew, and Estyr wished she had brought a cloak. She was not used to this cold, and it wasn't even winter! She wrapped her arms around herself as they continued down.

They finally reached the base of the stairs to the dirt of the underground, and as she followed close behind Aberdale, Estyr glanced nervously at the tombs — thousands of years old and all of them had their own separate alcoves. Statues stood in front of the tombs, holding an iron sword and a direwolf statue laid next to them. The sculpted faces seemed to follow Estyr and give her a disapproving glower. Every other tomb had large cracks in them or had their lids completely broken or removed. Estyr darted her eyes about tensely, wondering why. Were they being repaired? Was it wear? They've been here for thousands of years after all. Estyr told herself not to be afraid, but as they walked down another tunnel, the shadows of the statues, lit by the fire of the sconces, seemed to twist and turn and follow her.

Finally, they found the queen. She stood before a statue, holding a candle. Comfortable and unafraid. She wore the same coat as she had the day before, though her dress seemed to be different — pure black velvet. Estyr and Aberdale stopped just near her, no words were said, the queen just nodded to Aberdale, and he left straight away.

"What do you think?" Said the queen after Aberdale parted.

"What do I think of what?" Estyr replied curtly. Was the queen trying to scare her by bringing her down into this dark, dank place of shifting shadows? Estyr once again told herself she would not be scared.

"Your attitude saddens me."

"Good," Estyr forced herself to stare at the queen as she turned sharply and stone-faced.

"You want me to apologise, is that it?" The queen said disdainfully.

"Wouldn't hurt."

"I won't. If you don't like it here, get your things, get on your horse and go back to King's Landing, or Dorne, or wherever you bloody say you're from."

Estyr swallowed. She had not expected those words, and they hurt her more than she realised. But she would not let herself cry. She bit her lip, hard. Harder. And wrapped her arms tighter around herself, it suddenly became colder.

"If you stay here, good. I'd rather you did. Though it would help if you grew up, I have a task for you, but it can't be done by a child."

"Task? What task?" Estyr said, trying to sound disinterested, though undoubtedly the queen saw through it.

"There is a matter in the North that you could help with. It will take some time to plan, and I am still uncertain of your role. But in the meantime, you will attend some meetings with me and join in the planning. You said you wanted more to do, to see more of the North? Well, this is your chance."

Estyr tried her damnedest not to smile. She even bit her lip again to stop it. But the queen saw it and frowned. "Don't think of this as some kind of reward. Your lessons and training will still be prioritised."

"No, no, I don't," said Estyr, shaking her head. "When do we start?"

“Soon. For now, let’s talk. You never answered my question about the crypts."

"Oh, well, it's nice down here, I guess. Cold and dark though."

The queen snickered. "Doesn't sound very nice."

"No, I suppose not," agreed Estyr with a grin. "Why are some of the tombs cracked open or destroyed?"

"Because the dead came out from them during the Great War," as the queen spoke, she placed the candle on the tomb in front of her and started at unclasping her cloak.

"Is that what all the talk about the fighting in the crypts is?" Estyr asked.

"Yes," replied the queen and she removed her cloak, knelt down and wrapped it around Estyr tightly. It was far too big for her, but it immediately warmed her cold Dornish skin. "You're freezing."

"What about you?"

"I'm used to the cold," she rose again, taking the candle back in her hands and stared at the statue of a man.

"Who is that?" Estyr asked, silently thanking the warmth the cloak gave her.

"My father, Eddard Stark," the queen moved down to the next alcove. "This is my aunt, and Jon Snow's mother, Lyanna Stark," she turned and pointed at two more alcoves with statues, a young man and a boy. "And those are my brothers, Rickon Stark, and Robb Stark. Once King in the North and King of the Trident."

Like the other statues, Estyr passed in the crypts these all had statues of direwolves next to their masters and iron swords, though Lyanna Stark's had no sword, but an open palm that the queen gently placed her candle in. 

Estyr regarded the stone statue of Lyanna and couldn’t help but recognise it. “She looks like Arya.”

The queen smiled. “Apparently they were very similar. Arya will be down here one day and so will I, and Jon, Bran too. I will make sure they all have their own tomb and statue."

"What about your mother, is she down here?" said Estyr.

"No," the queen said sadly. "But I remember her in the sept."

"Do you pray there?"

"I'm done with praying. I only remember now. Do you pray, Estyr?"

She thought on the question a moment. She had not prayed to any of the gods since she left Sunspear, and what for? What kind of Gods let the skies fall on their people? "No, Your Grace. I don't pray."

"Don't believe in the Gods?"

"I believe in them, I just…"

"Don't like them very much?"

"Yes," agreed Estyr quietly.

"You and I have that in common. I hear you remember quite a lot now too. I hear the dummies in the training yard take quite a beating some nights."

"It’s only… I can't sleep sometimes."

"So you've told me. Is it the attack on King's Landing that keeps you?"

"Yes. But, other things as well."

"And you chose anger to handle it?"

"We all handle what we go through differently. You told me that."

"I did. But anger..." the queen shook her head. "It can consume you if you are not careful."

 _Let it_. Estyr gave the queen a sad and empty gaze. "You don't know what it's like… to watch someone die… because of you."

"I do, little viper. Trust me, I do," the queen knelt down again and placed a hand on her shoulder. "My family’s words _Winter is Coming_ , gave me much strength in my time as a prisoner. And they proved to come true, winter came for all those who betrayed us. I also like the Martell words. Do you know them?”

“Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken,” Estyr said without hesitation.

“Will you let your anger bend you to its will? Will you bow to your nightmares? Will you let these things break you?”

Estyr gazed into the queen’s beautiful blue eyes with renewed vigour and admiration, she smiled. “No, I won’t”

The queen returned her smile warmly. “I believe it. From now on, if you continue to have these thoughts and nightmares, you will speak to me instead of destroying things in the middle of the night. Understood?” 

“Okay,” Estyr agreed happily.

"Good. Come, there is someone we need to meet,” together they made their way out from the crypt. Estyr asked her if she wanted her cloak back, but the queen waved it off, and so as they climbed the winding stairs, the wolf-fur cloak trailed behind her, and the queen made no complaint. At the shutting of the ironwood door, the sun seemed to shine brighter than it ever did before. The queen's guard met them beneath the archway by the crypt's entrance and followed behind. They all made their way through Winterfell, the heavy boots of the guards and the gentle gait of the queen crushed and cracked the thin layer of snow that had built upon the ground.

One hundred men were of the queen's household guard. Picked from those who fought during the Great War, and the Last War. These men guarded Winterfell and kept the peace — walking along the battlements, through the halls, within the courtyards and keeps, and outside the castle walls by the inn and the village of Wintertown. Estyr had come to know a few of those men. Molen, with his scarred cheek. Daren, who claimed to be the best with a bow in the North. Miles and his love of bacon. Warner. Jak Bren. Beken. 

Of those one hundred, five had been chosen by the queen herself as her own sort of personal, 'Queensguard.' These were men of unquestioned loyalty, years of experience and highly capable warriors. They stayed by the queen's side almost always, and Estyr knew them all. Fat Fred, who Estyr admitted, was not actually fat, just big-boned. He wielded a fierce double-bladed battleaxe like a madman. Walter was slim but moved as quick as lightning. Alyn fought with a sword in his left hand, just like Arya. Then there was Aubrey, the female warrior. She had fought hard during the Great War claiming to have killed hundreds of wights. Estyr had seen her fight during drills, and she had a ferocity to match any man. Finally, Aberdale, the captain of the whole household guard. The most experienced and the most trusted. He had fought for the Starks since the Battle of the Bastards. Marching with them today, was Aubrey, Alyn and Aberdale. Once they all arrived at the sept, they flanked the entrance, standing still and stoic. 

Winterfell's small sept resided in the courtyard that led to the Great Hall. Its small door led into a windowless wooden sept with seven walls lit by candles and smelling of incense. Each wall had artwork of the Gods upon ledges. Some simple carvings, others like the Mother and the Father, were statues. In the centre of this flowery smelling sept, near a brazier roaring with fire, stood a man who plucked at the strings of a woodharp.

He turned at the presence of the queen and bowed low. Estyr recognised him at once, it was Rymund the Rhymer. "Your Grace, quiet a humble sept you have. I did not know Winterfell kept the New Gods."

"My father built this sept for our mother," the queen replied. "I had it repaired after the Great War to honour her memory."

"A noble purpose, Your Grace," Rymund gazed down at Estyr and grinned. "Who might be the one wrapped up like a sausage?" 

Estyr glowered at him, she still had the queen's cloak shrouded around her, and it was still far too big. She realised how silly she must look. "I'm Estyr, you stupid poet."

He shifted back and laughed "M'lady, I am wounded that you call me stupid. Yet it does beg the question. Can one be a poet if they are stupid? You would think they'd require some intelligence. Perhaps even—”

"That will do," interrupted the queen. Rymund gave a short bow in acknowledgement, and she stepped toward the brazier, warming her hands by the flames. "What information do you bring? And please don't make it rhyme," she said.

Rymund strung his harp with a sad cord. "The Master of Deepwood Motte is quite the insular man. He let me play one song, then threw me out of his longhall."

"I did not pay you to play songs to Lord Glover," the queen snapped.

"No, Your Grace, but I learned some in my time in his longhall. And yet more in the castle bailey and the shitty little hut they call an inn."

The queen turned on him, Estyr saw the unimpressed look on her face. "And?"

"There is discontent amongst his people."

"Yes, I know there is discontent. I've known that for some time."

"And… since you sent the parchment to Deepwood that simply said, _Winter is Coming_ , Lord Glover has grown increasingly paranoid, fearing you might attack at any moment.” 

“Good, that was my intent.”

“Indeed, and he's marshalled those Houses loyal to him, those that still are anyway. And has set them to defend the Motte. Though many inside the castle are not happy, including several of the guardsmen, they do not like to think they are being laughed at by the rest of the North. As well as the innkeep, a few servants in Lord Glover's kitchens. The smithy, though his nephew does not share his opinion. And Deepwood’s Master of Horse who is a rude old git, though he is quite an interesting man. Used to be a whaler and is probably one of the few people in the North who has been to Essos. Handily, he too has grown a dislike of his lord."

"Good, very good," said the queen.

"Quite a few inside Deepwood Motte believe that not defending Winterfell in the Great War was cowardly. Many of them deem that not attending your coronation was shameful. You have many allies inside the castle, Your Grace."

"Yet I cannot just attack the castle. I can't risk their lives, whether they are my allies or not."

"They will rise for their queen against their false lord!”

"They will not rise for someone who burns their homes and kills their friends and family."

"Well, what do you mean to do? A sneak attack? An assassination? Take the castle from the inside? Oh! Any of those would make for a great ballad!"

"I do not share those matters with singers," the queen replied flatly.

Rymund gave a satirical glance of shock, exaggerated by the notes he struck on his harp. "You wound me, Your Grace. Do you not trust me? Have I not served you well?"

"You served me well because of the gold I promised you, and the task you did for me was far less dangerous than the one I need done now. The moment I trust you with anything more than chatting up locals, is the moment the Wall falls down."

"Ha! This is true!"

The queen smiled. "You may leave, Rymund. Captain Aberdale has your gold. Enjoy the south."

He bowed once more and played a happy tune on his harp as he waltzed from the sept. Estyr followed him with uncertain eyes. When the tiny door shut behind Rymund, she turned back to the queen. "I don't like him."

"Why? Because he called you a sausage?" said the queen with a mocking smile. "I don't like him either, but he has provided good information."

"How do you know he won't betray you for more gold?"

"I'm sure he will, but he wouldn't dare while he's in the North. In the south?" The queen shrugged. "That doesn't matter."

Estyr stepped up to the brazier, next to her queen. She gazed around the seven-sided room, with its seven art features of statues and carvings. Her eyes rested sadly on the Mother.

"We have work to do," the queen said suddenly. "You most of all."

Estyr looked up to her. "What would you have me do?"

The queen gazed at her for a long moment, Estyr could feel her blue eyes pierce through her, she felt a chill up her spine. "I need your help, but..." the queen stopped speaking, her mind trailing off. She stared at the statue of the Mother. "If something were to happen to you… my sister would…”

"No, I can do it!" Estyr pleaded. "Whatever it is, I won't let you down!"

"It will be dangerous, and it will take some time to plan."

"I can do it!"

The queen took a deep breath. Her eyes darted between the statues of the Mother and the Father. "Then we had best get started, little viper."

* * *

Flakes of snow slowly began to fall, and the air grew colder. They dropped gently at first, then harder and harder until one could be forgiven for thinking winter had come. Estyr wrapped the raggy cloak that belonged to Stefon, around her tighter as she watched Aberdale and Aubrey cross the hastily made bridge of oak trunks taken from the palisade wall. The Northmen followed, Estyr recognised some: Jak, Bren, Miles, Warner and others too. They were one hundred men, most of whom were of the queen's household guard. Well trained warriors and well-armed in heavy plate or boiled leather. They all displayed round iron shields and a sword or axe at their waist. Though, most of them carried a wooden cudgel in their free hand, so that it may make it easier to knock a man out, rather than kill him.

The armour of the Northmen brought her mind to memories she wanted to forget. She forced her eyes closed. _This is not King's Landing, the Northmen haven't come to sack this castle, they’re my allies now. There are no Dothraki, no Unsullied... and no dragons_.

"Estyr! Well done!"

She threw her eyes open, Aubrey had come to her with a great smile. Aubrey was a rather unattractive woman, with a broad face and dirty brown hair she tied up in an unkempt knot. But her confidence, sauntering gait and her ferocity in battle made her alluring to men and women alike. Strangely, Estyr noticed a rolled piece of white velvet tied around Aubrey’s back with rope.

"What's on your back?" Estyr asked her.

"Stark banner," Aubrey winked then slapped a hand on Estyr's arm. "You did good, girl!"

"Aye, ya did," Aberdale had appeared beside Aubrey echoing her sentiment. "How many men should we be expecting to come up against?"

Estyr hesitated, she was never able to get a full count. "Nearly two hundred. I think."

"Two hundred," Aubrey blurted in a hushed voice. "We only have half of that!"

"Most of them are conscripted peasants with pitchforks and lumber axes, and half of them don't even want to fight for Glover," Estyr said. "They will surrender once they see all you coming at them. The ones who fight? Well, you'll just have to knock ‘em out."

"Easier said than done, Estyr," Aberdale objected. "The lad in the watchtower, can he be trusted?"

"If Erik had betrayed me, he would have rung the bell a long time ago. He hasn't." 

The boy in the watchtower beside the longhall on the peak of the hill was named Erik, for his father. He was a youth of fourteen, yet taller than Estyr, with a small face, bushy eyebrows, pale green eyes and a wisp of a moustache. Lord Glover picked Erik to keep a lookout in the high watchtower because it was said that he had eyes like a hawk, and his hawk eyes were infatuated with Estyr. As was her hope. One time in Dorne when Estyr lay next to Allyria, basking in the southern sun together. Allyria playfully teased the castle cook that had a habit of staring at her. Once the chubby man ran off flushed with embarrassment, Allyria rolled over and told Estyr a secret. 

"I've got a secret for you, darling. Men are like harps, pluck the right strings, and they will play to your tune!" Allyria had giggled like a little girl, and Estyr, who was a little girl, giggled with glee. She never knew her real mother, whenever she asked her father, or even Oberyn, they simply said that she was ”far away." Estyr was not stupid, she knew that meant dead. Allyria became the mother she never had in those days. They were great days, but they were gone, far gone. She now lived in the cold and dreary North, and for the past month, she had remained in this old, worn and uninteresting castle called Deepwood Motte, living as another person called Ally. 

Ally was a happy girl from Pentos, who had sailed across to White Harbour with her mother using the last of their coin. Though disaster struck when her mother became ill on the voyage and died just before docking at the Northern city, leaving Ally alone and scared. The Gods seemed to favour Ally, however, for the granddaughter of the Lord of White Harbour, found her and took pity on the young foreign girl. Wylla Manderly, with her long blonde haired dyed with streaks of green, took Ally in and with the fat lord Wyman Manderly's aid, they made it their duty to bring the girl to her long lost father in Deepwood Motte.

All of this, of course, was part of a much larger ruse concocted by the Queen in the North. The Manderly's were happy to assist, Wylla most of all. She along with a dozen guards from White Harbor, escorted Estyr from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte to see her there safely and to convince Lord Glover of the ruse. He was suspicious at first until Wylla told him, "the queen doesn't care about White Harbor, she’s happy relaxing about her great castle while we bring in all the money. She cares even less about this poor foreign girl, my lord. Ally here lost her mother; all she wants is to be with her father." 

Estyr knew how difficult it must have been for Wylla to speak ill about the queen and the Starks, for Wylla Manderly had been the most loyal and devoted Stark supporter Estyr had ever met. On their journey from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte, Wylla spoke of the promises of loyalty the Manderly's owed to the Starks of Winterfell."My ancestors had to flee from the Reach, they went North, and the Starks took them in, without question. They protected us, gave us a home… and we betrayed them." Wylla dropped her head, but just as quickly lifted it with renewed vigour. "Never again, though. I shall die before a Manderly betrays the Starks." 

Wylla was bold, outspoken and brave. And it was just a woman like her to marry Captain Aberdale, of the newly created House Woodard. This was a rare marriage of love, they had grown close when they met at the queen’s coronation and Wylla could not go a minute without speaking to Aberdale. In contrast, her older sister Wynafryd would marry Larence Hornwood, formerly Snow. For the Hornwood’s support, beginning with their aid at the Battle of the Bastards, the queen decreed Larence a true born son of Halys Hornwood. And granted him Last Hearth and all its earnings. The marriage of Larence and Wynafryd was arranged by Larence’s aunt, Berena Hornwood, Wynafryd’s father Wylis Manderly and the Lord of White Harbor, and her grandfather, Wyman Manderly. The queen approved it eagerly and so, Larence and Wynafryd Hornwood of Last Hearth, would become a cadet branch of House Hornwood of Hornwood.

Though marriage and titles seemed a half a world away, as the attempt to fool Lord Glover worked. Wylla's words, along with a handful of gifts, including several barrels of White Harbor's highly regarded black beer, had convinced Lord Glover to let Ally in so she may live with her "father." Stefon took that role, though he was married to a fat woman whom's face seemed to constantly pout. Stefon had initially lived in White Harbor, spending his early years on whaling ships that sometimes took him across the Narrow Sea. In his older days, he found land and took up duties as Deepwoods Master of Horse after theirs had passed. Stefon had no love for Lord Glover, but he only agreed to assist the queen and partake in the ruse, purely for the gold the queen had promised him.

Estyr, as Ally, was nervous out of her wits when she arrived at Deepwood. She was afraid the people would not believe who she was or simply would not talk to her because she was not a Northerner. The queen's words, however, gave her strength. "Be kind and charismatic as I know you are, but don't be a pushover they will respect you more if you show strength and resilience. Sing and dance for them, be a happy girl and stubborn too, and they will slowly welcome you."

Decidedly enough, slowly but surely, she won the locals over. And in return, she learned more about Deepwood and Lord Glover. She befriended the innkeep, a few guardsmen and many of the young boys and girls. They would ask her about where she came from, and she would tell them all she knew about Pentos. (She thanked the stars for Maester Wolkan's lesson and told herself she would never take them for granted again.) Stefon would gather her parchment and ink when he could, and Estyr would write with word to the queen, telling her of Lord Glover and the castle. The words were full, detailing if Lord Glover had made any changes to the castle, how many men he had, which seemed to grow weekly. She wrote informing that Lord Glover had brought in two of the Houses of the Wolfswood and conscripted peasants to defend the castle. And she wrote of the friends “Ally” had made. These parchments were handed to Northern merchants, traders, farmers, lumberers or hunters that visited the castle and spent time at the inn. In reality, they were the queen’s men.

Estyr befriended a big beast of a man called Gerrad, who was one of Lord Glover's officers. He would tell Estyr how much she reminded him of his daughter, only with darker skin. One late night when Gerrad drank far too much of the beer from White Harbor, he admitted his utter disdain for Lord Glover. "The North laughs at us, Ally! We should've been there at Winterfell fighting with the rest of 'em! But that blockheaded coward Glover couldn't let go of his pride. The queen will come for him, bloody fool." The next day Estyr confronted Gerrad about his foolish words and he begged that she not tell a soul. She would not. Instead, she told him that the queen was coming for Glover, and thus Ally had another friend in the castle. Gerrad told her of Erik, the watchtower boy, and she learned how the boy was found and picked by Lord Glover to keep a lookout with his little hawk eyes. She made it a mission to meet him, for she knew that if he were to spot the queen's men coming from the flank, they would have a much more difficult time getting into the castle.

It was at the small inn, (or the shitty little inn, as Rymund the Rhymer called it) where she met Erik on one sunny afternoon. He was immediately interested in her, and it took little effort for Estyr to befriend him. One night, they managed to sneak up to the watchtower, where together, they gazed out upon the vast Wolfswood. A deep howl of wolves came, and Estyr feigned a look of fear and grasped tightly onto Erik's arm. He smiled, and with all the effort of a boy trying to sound like a man, he said: "Don't worry Ally, they can't harm us up here. And if they do, I'll protect you." He proved it by showing her his axe that he used for chopping wood and his helm he wore while he stood guard. It was a battered old thing of beaten iron with a visor that shut with a loud clunk or opened with a noisy creak. He let her wear it, and she giggled and flirted all the while. In return, Estyr, or rather Ally, showed him the constellations of the stars.

Throughout the days and nights, she gained his confidence, and she eventually asked him about Lord Glover. Erik liked him, mainly because he gave Erik this watchtower duty that he enjoyed. But he was also unsure of the Lord and said that all the talk of what happened in Winterfell, only made Glover look like a coward. This would complicate things, Estyr thought. She was no longer sure whether she should tell him the truth. So, instead, she chose to use the truth, to tell a lie.

"Do you want to go to Pentos with me?" She asked him one day as they lay on damp grass.

"P-Pentos?" Replied Erik, dumbfounded. "I mean, I would love to go… but how, Ally?"

Estyr leaned in closer. "You have to promise me you won't tell a soul."

"I promise,” Erik whispered.

"Swear it,"

"I swear!"

Estyr felt terrible for what she was about to do, but Erik was young, he would get over it, and her. She looked into his pale green eyes. "There is going to be an uprising in this castle soon."

"What!”

She put a finger on his lips. "Shh! The queen will come, and people will revolt. And there will be some men wanting to sneak into the castle from the west."

"How do you know all this?" Erik demanded wide-eyed. 

"I can't tell you just yet, not until it is all done. You'll be in the watchtower, and you'll see those men approaching from the west. You have to promise me that you won't ring the bell. Do it when the queen comes, but not when the men want to sneak in."

"But why?"

"Because if you don't. The queen will siege the castle, and hundreds of people will die. If you let the men sneak in, they'll take the castle with no deaths."

Erik furrowed his thick brow deep in thought and wrought with concern. "I don't understand… how do you know all this."

"I'll tell you all after. When it's all over I'll make sure they let us go. Then we can sail to Pentos together and we can eat grapes by the sea, or watch the travellers coming in by the Sunrise Gate. Or visit the Red Temple!”

The frown and concern left Erik’s face. “I’d love to do all that.”

“I’d love to do it all, but only with you,” Estyr gave him a coy smile.

"Okay, I promise. I won’t ring the bell. But you have to tell me how you knew all this, Ally."

“I will. And promise me, if fighting does happen, don’t try and be a hero,”

“I promise.”

Estyr kissed his cheek and giggled, and his face went redder than a fresh tomato. Erik, the young watchtower boy, was playing to the tune of Estyr’s harp and she smiled to herself thinking of Allyria. She decided, however, that she liked him, in general, at least. He was not handsome or particularly smart, and he was only a peasant. But he was sweet and loyal as the rest. Once again Estyr reflected on the lies she had told him, and silently regretted that Erik would never really go to Pentos.

That was a week ago when she was Ally of Pentos. Now she was Estyr, out by the palisade wall of Deepwood Motte with one hundred Northerners ready to raid the castle. She could feel her nerves building as she asked Aberdale for her sword. “Did you bring Starfall?” she asked him with an anxious patter to her voice.

He was holding it in his shield arm. Aberdale exposed the thin shortsword, housed in its supple leather scabbard and handed it to Estyr. Though the belt which she would buckle around her waist was not hers, she looked at it with deep regard. It was made of fine leather, with perfect gold stitching around its edge, the buckle was deep polished bronze. All around the belt were burnt in images of a rising sun, with a shooting star above it

“The queen made it for you,” Aberdale said smiling. Estyr loved it, and it fit her perfectly. She positioned Starfall on her left hip and tightened the buckle until everything sat comfortably. A sword by her side, made her feel stronger and strangely made her feel older than her thirteen years.

“Hope you don’t plan on using that,” Aubrey said.

“I’ll fight if I have too,” Estyr replied, trying to gather her confidence.

“No you won’t,” Aberdale shot back. “The queen will take my head if anything happens to you. You’ll stay behind me. Got it?”

Estyr dropped her shoulders. “Got it.”

“Good, let's go.”

They marched forth in a split force, fifty men went with Aubrey to circle the bailey and fifty went with Aberdale where they would meet up by the two towers by the gate and drawbridge. Estyr stuck to Aberdale's heels, Starfall half drawn from its scabbard, ready to use. They passed the butcher's house. The smithy. Thatch houses with people peeking through their windows or doors nudged open slightly, and all the while they met no resistance. All the attention, it seemed, was focused on the queen and her army outside the walls and Estyr knew that having no ringing bell was a great boon to their efforts, she smiled to herself as she thought on that, and then, the bell rang.

It clanged suddenly and loudly, each metallic thump leaving a resonating ring in its wake. Then came yells from the tower. Inaudible shouts and hails, men from the longhall joined in. Aberdale grabbed her shoulder hard. "You said the watchtower bell wouldn't ring!"

"It wasn't supposed to! I don't know what's happening. Maybe... maybe someone else climbed the tower and saw." _Yes, that had to be it_. Erik was in her palm, and he _promised_ her.

No more could be said as suddenly Estyr, Aberdale and their fifty Stark soldiers were confronted by a mass of men, Estyr guessed they numbered nearly eighty in total. These men wore bits of plate armour above mail, others in boiled leather adorned with the sigil of House Glover, House Woods or House Branch. They were armed with a sword or axe and shield, trained soldiers. Most, however, were in rags or cheap doublets and roughspun pants with leather boots carrying weathered pikes, axes or half-spears and they bore an expression of uncertainty and fear upon their faces. They were peasants, not soldiers.

The bell continued to ring, but neither group moved to attack. Aberdale stepped forward, pointing his sword lazily about the group of men. "We are taking this castle in the name of Queen Sansa. More soldiers lie on the other side of the bailey. You are surrounded, none of you needs die."

Motion came from the rack of peasants, and a big man pushed through, Estyr knew him at once, it was Gerrad. He stood at the front, and without hesitation, threw his sword on the ground. "You'll have no quarrel with us, my friend," he said calmly, and he smiled at Estyr. Then a peasant at the front threw an old iron axe on the ground, then another and another, more and more dropped their weapons. Estyr sighed with relief until a man's wail caught her. A soldier came charging from the crowd his plate and chain rattling as he ran towards Estyr, screaming, "Deepwood!"

Aberdale stepped in front of her, took the man's wild sword cut with his own and with practised ease, parried it deftly then smashed the butt of his sword against the man's helmeted head. He fell to the ground in a great clanger, two Stark soldiers surrounded him. None more tried to attack, their weapons were secured, and they were led to the gate where Aubrey and her men were already waiting.

"They just gave up as soon as they saw us. When the bell rang, none of 'em attacked," she said to Aberdale. The bell had stopped ringing some time ago.

"They're mostly peasants," said Aberdale. "And the soldiers haven't got the spirit."

"Especially when officers like Gerrad, surrender," Estyr added. "But it's not over. We need to get up to the longhall, that's where the rest will be, and Lady Glover."

Aberdale had ordered most of his men to surround those that surrendered which numbered well over a hundred, though they seemed to stay subdued. Aberdale was not taking any chances, however, and only chose ten others to join him and Aubrey to climb the hill to the longhall. Estyr stepped in beside him.

"You stay here," Aberdale commanded her.

"No," she said curtly. "I didn't live in this wooden hole for a month just to watch our work unfold from back here."

"Estyr!" he bellowed angrily.

"I'm coming with you whether you like it or not," she marched forward up the hill, forcing the rest to follow.

When they arrived at the entrance to the longhall, it was as Estyr feared. They tried their hardest to heave and force open the door, but it had been barred from the inside. "The fuck do we do now," said one of the Stark men.

"Burn the fuckers," replied another.

"Shut ya gobs!" Aberdale roared. He turned to the barred double door of the longhall. "Ho! The castle is surrounded. Open these doors, and none will die!"

"Fuck you!" came a cry from inside.

Estyr grabbed his arm. "There is another way," she whispered. "Through the watchtower. Follow me."

Five Stark men stayed at the entrance, bashing and hollering at the door, keeping the attention of those inside, while five more followed Estyr, Abderdale and Aubrey around the side of the longhall. They ran toward the fifty-foot watchtower, with its square base and its single door. When Estyr tried to open it, the handle would not budge, only making a clink.

"It's fucking locked, Estyr," Aberdale said with bewilderment as if this was the most surprising thing that could have happened.

She did not reply, only reached into the inside of her tunic, to a small pocket she had crudely sewn into it, and pulled out a set of iron tumbler lockpicks. She found the right one and set to work, slowly defeating the lock.

"You lil' thief," Aubrey said, though her tone was full of delight. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Arya showed me in King's Landing," Estyr said plainly. Her focus was on the latch.

"Never met Lady Arya. Saw her, but never met her," Aubrey admitted.

Aberdale spoke up, "If you ever meet her, don't call her a lady."

Just then, the latch made a satisfying snap and Estyr gently pushed the door open. "Locked was it, Captain?" Estyr said, teasing. "You can call me a lady, you know?"

Aberdale shook his head. "That'll be the day," he stepped into the now unlocked watchtower, the soldiers followed through, Aubrey and Estyr came in behind. 

The watchtower connected to the back of the longhall, it was musty and warm inside, with the smell of burnt wood. They came out next to the dais upon which Lord Glover's high seat resided. Down the longhall were stretches of tables and chairs on either side and above them, a second story where old wooden doors led into chambers, sconces burned bright next to each one. However, their attention was to their front, across the walls cowered what seemed like hundreds of small folk and servants, gripping their loved ones. In the centre, stood fifteen House soldiers by Estyr’s quick count. Aberdale drew his sword once more, and the others followed suit or made ready their cudgels. Estyr kept a hand on Starfall, prepared to use it, though partly hoping she would not have to.

"Throw ya weapons down," Aberdale shouted. "There is no point in fighting!"

None did as he commanded. Instead, the Glover soldiers screamed and charged across the longhall. Aberdale gripped his longsword, and yelled "Winterfell!" Aubrey and the Stark men echoed his cry, they all stepped forward in front of Estyr, screaming it again and again. But they were outnumbered, even if they won the fight, many would die. The Stark men and Glover men clashed, a horrible resonance of steel and wails of men, wooden cudgels smashed against plate armour, steel sang as swords met and beside Estyr a Stark soldier fell to the ground, bleeding from his neck.

She glanced at the door. The bar that blocked it from the inside had to be taken off. Estyr jumped back from the commotion and spun around the feet of men as they tried to kill each other. She felt a hand try to grasp her, but she shimmied it off her and rolled away deftly. _Agile as a cat_. The double doors came closer as she jumped from chairs and leapt onto a table while the battle raged around her. Her cloak bristled behind as she sprang and jumped across the tables of the longhall while more men tried to grab her, but she was too fast. _Quick as a snake_. She leapt of one last table and rolled her landing just before the double doors. The heavy wooden bar was too much for her to lift in one go. Instead, she proceeded to push it off its iron hinges from one end. Inch by inch it moved, until the block of timber fell, and the door burst open with more Stark soldiers ready to join the fray. 

Estyr took the hilt of Starfall in her right hand and drew it. It gave her strength just holding it. She raised the sword high and screamed "Winterfell!" 

The Stark soldiers behind her joined the battle cry, and they ran by her, charging the Glovers. As the men fought, Estyr dashed in and slashed Starfall across the unprotected legs of Glover men, exposing them to knockout blows from a cudgel or the butt of a sword. Or to fall to the ground, grasping at their legs with agony. She saw Aubrey fighting fiercely, a sword in one hand, a cudgel in the other. Two men were attacking her. She parried a strike with her sword and with a swift motion brought the cudgel upon the man's head. He careened sideways, falling into the other man and Aubrey let out a great cry and kicked him hard. Both men fell to the ground, and Aubrey took the fight to another.

Aberdale was worse off, he was trying to fight three men and was losing, pushed back further, and she could see that he bled from a deep cut on his arm. Estyr once more jumped from table to table across the longhall, Starfall tight in her grip. She landed hard and sprinted toward Aberdale, she slashed the legs of one man, and he fell forward with a great cry. Then she saw a short man in an old iron helm, bringing his axe down upon Aberdale's exposed back. She jumped forward and pushed Starfall's point into his bare thigh. When she drew it, his blood gushed from the wound and sprout on Estyr's clothes and her face. 

The small man fell to a knee and caught a glimpse of Estyr, he groaned and swung his axe at her, she jumped back from his blow deftly. He reeled forward and whirled again, but this time, after Estyr easily dodged his swing, the short man lurched forward with his legs and grabbed her arm. She slashed the edge of Starfall across his wrist, but despite the profuse bleeding, he held on tight. He seemed to stare at her, and she could hear muffled words from behind his helm, curses maybe. Though she did not want to wait and find out, and she did not wish to lose her arm to his axe. She noticed he wore no gorget making the small man's neck, clearly exposed. Estyr stepped forward, gripping Starfall tight, and as quickly Arya herself would have done, she stabbed its point into the man's neck. It pierced the skin with ease, blood immediately spouted from his mouth, she withdrew Starfall, and more blood gushed from the open hole. His grip on her arm fell away, and the man clutched at his neck, choking. But while his lifeblood drained, he looked at her with horror in his eyes... his pale green eyes, he gasped, trying to speak, and she thought she heard him say, "Ally.”

The battle stopped when the man fell, four Stark soldiers lay dead, the hall full of wounded, unconscious or killed Glover men. Aberdale stood with a deep gash in his arm, Aubrey sheathed her sword and came beside Estyr, asking if the man was the first person she had killed. Estyr did not respond. She swallowed hard and moved towards the man lying on the ground. His helm looked familiar, she thought. She lifted his visor that opened with a noisy creak, and she saw his small face, his bushy brow, his wisp of a moustache and his pale green eyes. It was not a short man she had killed, but a young boy. It was Erik.

Starfall fell from her hands as she reeled back in horror of what she had done. Aubrey and Aberdale came beside her trying to calm her sudden wailing, but she could not hear them. She could only hear Erik's little voice that tried to sound like a man. _I promise_. She rose suddenly and leaned over his body and hit his unmoving chest with her fist. Her tears falling uncontrollably. "Why!" she pleaded to the dead boy. "You promised me! You weren't supposed to fight!" She felt strong hands suddenly grab and lift her from Erik's corpse. They carried her out as she sobbed.

The crowned direwolf of Stark flew from atop the tall watchtower of Deepwood Motte still visible amongst the dense snow, that had not stopped falling covering the land in white, sleet mat. Estyr sat on a bay filly, her face and chest still doused in Erik’s lifeblood, Starfall back at her side. She sat sullenly on the horse, ready to ride out to her queen and report on what had happened. _What happened is that I killed a boy, a sweet boy, not a year older than me. I murdered him._ It felt bad enough to lie to Erik to get his hopes knowing full well everything she said, and all he believed would happen, would not. He was dead because of her and gone so early. She suddenly found herself growing angry. Why did he ring the bell! Why did he attack me! Answers to these questions would likely never come, and that made her grimace with fury. Deeply in her heart, she wished that Arya Stark were here. The Hero of Winterfell would know what to say.

She wiped off harshly, the tears on her cheeks, as she spotted Aberdale riding up to her with a scarlet coloured banner rolled up under his arms. He stopped his horse next to hers and held forward the banner. "You should be the one to lay this before the queen. You did well."

"Yes, I killed a boy. I _did well_ ," she said scornfully. 

Aberdale looked at her solemnly. "If you hadn't, you'd be dead, and I'd be bringing the queen your body instead of a banner." He placed the rolled banner across her horse’s saddle. "Come, let ride out." She sniffled, took the banner underarm and followed Aberdale out of Deepwood Motte.

Twelve rode out from Deepwood, across the snow-ridden field towards the queen's army. Estyr galloped behind Aubrey and Aberdale, taking the rear was the Lady Sybelle Glover and her daughter Erena. They sat on their mounts with sour faces. Stark men flanked them, of which a few still had smears of blood upon their armour from those just slain. Lord Robett Glover found himself surrounded Estry noticed, as they came closer towards the two thousand strong armies, they saw him, his son and his four guards in the centre of a mass of Northmen, the queen sat mounted on her white palfrey, staring down Lord Glover. Mounted beside her was Mira Forrester, Clay Cerwyn, Jonelle Cerwyn and Eddara Tallhart.

Aberdale pushed through the crowd with his horse and motioned Estyr to come forth. She dismounted from the bay filly with the Glover banner in her arms, and when she broke through the crowd, she saw the Queen in full detail. The breeze gently blew her red hair, which she had placed in many tight braids and sitting neatly upon it was the direwolf crown. She sat tall on her white mare called Winterrose, wearing a dress of pure white, its trimmings finished with grey fur and decorated all across it were red leaves of a heart tree. The queen slowly turned her head toward Estyr, her face was a mask, and she offered no words. Estyr took another step forward, unrolled the Glover banner before the feet of the queen's horse, and knelt on one knee.

"Your Grace. Deepwood Motte is yours," Estyr said proudly.

"Look at me," she heard the queen's stone voice say. Estyr looked up to her apprehensively. "Who's blood is that?" the queen asked.

"Not mine, Your Grace," Estyr replied, but she would say no more of the boy she killed, not now at least. Nor did the queen ask anymore, though Estyr could have sworn that she saw the slightest glimmer of relief upon her face.

"Enough of this farce!" barked Lord Glover. "I know who are you little bitch!" Still kneeling, Estyr looked toward him. He was pointing an angry finger at her, and his face wore a frown as jagged as a rock. "I let you into my castle!"

"Not your castle anymore," Estyr shot back.

Glover scowled at her, then flared at the queen. "I come to parlay with you, and you betray my trust by sneaking this little foreign whore into my castle and killing Northmen! Do you have no honour!"

Estyr rose as the queen brought her attention back to Lord Glover. "Honour?" She said quietly. "You speak to me of honour. The man who broke two oaths and cowered in his castle while Northmen sacrificed themselves."

"I swore my oath to the King in the North, not some Targaryen bitch!"

"So did everyone else!" the queen suddenly roared, her voice as rough as gravel. "Yet they still honoured their oaths of fealty they made to Jon Snow! They fought by our side in blizzards against dead men! They watched their King fight for them! While you did what? Sit by the warm fire?"

"I—”

"You are a coward, and you have shamed your family and the North."

Robett Glover's face flushed with anger. "And you are a southern bitch who married a Lannister! You presume to rule us with your pet!"

"Watch your tongue before I remove it, Glover," Eddara Tallhart bellowed.

"Pah! You're all children!"

The queen glowered at him, but rather than continue the verbal war. She chose to end it all. "Lord Robett Glover, you will be sent to the Wall. You will serve the remainder of your life as a black brother. Your son will remain as the Master of Deepwood Motte."

"No," Robett replied harshly.

"Are you refusing to follow your queen's command?" Eddara said.

"I will die before I join the Night's Watch and serve with that kneeling fool Jon Snow, or is it Aegon Targaryen? Another southern bastard."

Estyr looked to the queen. Her wry face was full of malice. She took a deep breath. "Get Lord Glover off his horse and fetch a block."

With strange synchronicity, those that encircled Robett Glover drew their swords with a hum of steel on leather. Robett's four loyal men and his son, Gawen, drew theirs in response. Lord Glover rose a lazy hand to them. "Let it be. Queen Sansa wouldn't dare kill me."

 _She wiped out the Boltons and killed their lord with his own hounds._ Estyr thought. _You're nothing to her._ The queen said nothing, and the circle shrunk around Lord Glover as the queen's men stepped toward him. His guards tried to canter their horses to protect their lord despite being outnumbered, they fought to press forward, and a few swords clashed, but Stark soldiers enveloped them and threw them from their horses. Estyr knew these four guards, friends and respected men of Lord Glover. The young Clyn, thrown from his saddle, a foot laid into his back after he hit the ground. Tobin, who managed to get to his feet and fight for a short while, before being knocked out. And the brothers Alec and Kay, Alec’s horse was killed as he attempted to ride men down. Kay tried to fight his way to help his brother, but he never made it passed the two men in front of him. They showed their fierce loyalty and with that commotion only came more objections.

"No!" Sybelle Glover screamed. "Don't you dare! Leave him be!"

"Please don't hurt him!" Erena cried. "Father!"

"It's okay, sweetheart!" Robett yelled toward her as he was pulled to the ground hard, but it did little to waver his contempt. He grimaced at the queen as her men lifted him up. "This is the queen's justice, is it? I protect my people, and you make a show of it to my wife and daughter?"

"I wouldn't call pride and cowardice, protecting people," Jonelle Cerwyn said mockingly.

"Shut your mouth, pup!" Glover spat back as they forced him to walk towards Fat Fred, who had fetched a large stump that would act as a chopping block.

"Don't speak to my sister like that!" Cerywn growled.

"Or what, boy? Is it you that will take my head, or cower behind the queen’s skirts? And you Mira, anything smart to say? You swore loyalty to my House, and you betrayed me!"

"I did swear an oath to House Glover. But it is a shadow of what it once was." Mira replied calmly. "The Starks saved us. Queen Sansa gave us our freedom. You gave the North nothing." Robett Glover's reaction showed that he would have unleashed in a fit if he were not kicked in the back of his legs and forced to kneel before the large stump. 

"Leave him!" Sybelle shouted her face a grimace of anger with marks of tears. “Don’t you dare hurt him!”

The queen dismounted from Winterrose and said softly to her Captain, "Aberdale, the sword."

Aberdale nodded and stepped back, though Clay Cerwyn leaned over his horse and spoke in a whisper. "Your Grace, you don't have to do this."

"Shut up, Clay. The queen can do what she likes," Jonelle Cerwyn snapped at him. Estyr had never spoken to Jonelle, but in this brief moment, she liked her. So far.

"Aye, but taking a man's head is dark business. I'm happy to do it, my queen. Or at least get one of the other men here to do it."

"They aren't Starks," the queen said to Clay. "Our way is the old way. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

"With respect, Your Grace, but you aren't a man."

The queen favoured him with a smile. "Yet I rule them." She removed her crown and handed it to Estyr and moved towards the stump where Robett Glover rested his head. Aberdale stepped in beside her, carrying a beautiful gold and ruby hilted sword in his hands. The scabbard itself was made of the finest leather and decorated in fabulous gold filigree. Estyr glanced down at the iron direwolf crown Gendry Baratheon had made, it was slick with moist from snowfall which only made it shine brighter. She brushed a finger across the two direwolf heads at the front of the crown, staring at the wolves with fascination.

"Pretty thing, isn't it?" Mira Forrester said, she had dismounted her horse and came beside Estyr. She wore brown riding pants, riding boots, a studded leather jerkin with House Forrester's sigil stamped in the centre — an ironwood tree with a longsword in its trunk. Mira Forrester was not an ugly woman, nor was she an outstanding beauty either. She had a rather plain face, with brown hair braided at the back and hazel coloured eyes that were kind to look upon.

Estyr looked up to those kind eyes with half a smile "Lady Mira! It's good to see you." Mira had been at the feast after the queen's coronation. She was kind and not wary or mistrustful of Estyr like most other Northerners were. Likely because of her time serving as a handmaiden to Margaery Tyrell. At the feast, Mira showed Estyr some dances she learned in court, which Estyr used with Talia and Gendry shortly after, though the wine Mira had given to Estyr made her attempts a clumsy and laughable failure.

"You've got quite a few tricks up your skirts, don't you Dornish girl?" Mira said.

She shrugged. "Not enough, I don't think. Is Talia here?"

Mira smiled affectionately. "She is back at Ironrath. She was asking after you too, you know?"

"Truly?"

"Truly. My sister is fond of dance and song. She was hoping to see you dance again someday."

"Maybe if I've had enough wine," Estyr said.

"You and me both!" Mira laughed. Suddenly her tone went serious. "I would enjoy this conversation, but it is not the day for that. Have you seen a beheading before, Estyr?"

"I've seen people burn alive," Estyr said frankly.

"A horrible way to go. But it will not make this easier to watch. And you must watch. Do not look away. The queen will know if you do." Mira placed a gentle hand on Estyr's shoulder and brought her gaze to the queen, Estyr followed her sight, looking upon the figures standing around the stump. 

They had stopped beside Robett Glover who sat on both knees with his snarling, contemptuous face and his neck exposed across the stump. Aberdale held the scabbard in both hands, offering the hilt of Widow's Wail to the queen. She pulled it out in one motion; it sang a high pitched resonance that echoed across the field and through the Wolfswood. She placed the point of the sword into the ground and took hold with both hands around its hilt. The sword's Valyrian steel blade glimmered in the grey light.

"I would hear your final words, my lord," the queen said. "Should you have them."

Robett Glover did not have anything to say. His head stayed still resting on the stump and breathed long, heavy breaths. The queen deemed that enough. The words she said next were like a prayer. She spoke them softly yet with a commanding tone. "In the sight of the Old Gods. By the laws of the First Men. I, Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North, do sentence you to die." As she began to lift the longsword, the wails of women filled the field with the pleas of mercy and cries to stop. The snow seemed to fall harder at that moment, swallowing the world with its frost.

The queen dropped Widow's Wail with a heavy swing. It cut deep through Robett Glover’s neck, but not deep enough. Despite the sharpness of the Valyrian steel, the queen did not seem to have enough strength to cut through Robett's thick neck. His head still hung by bone and tissue and his gurgling cries of agony echoed near as loud as the cries from Sybelle and Erena Glover. The queen wretched free Widow's Wail from his neck, and his blood spurt over her white dress. Estyr stared at the event, shocked. The choking sounds Lord Glover made, only uneased her more and the beautiful white gown the queen wore, now spattered with blood, seemed like a vision from an old story meant to scare children. Even Mira Forrester gaped at the queen with an unnerved expression.

Widow's Wail went high above the queen’s head once more, and she brought it down again, this time with a loud grunt. The second cut cleanly severed head from body, and it dropped to the snow ridden ground with a wet thud. Suddenly, Sybelle Glover leapt from her horse and pushed through the soldiers, shrieking and running towards the queen. Estyr gripped Starfall and started forward, but stopped when she saw Sybelle drop to her knees by Robett Glover's head. She picked it up in a shaking fit of tears and rocked back and forth, cradling his head like a baby. Her moment was short-lived, as men lifted her by her arms and Robett's head fell back to the sodden grass. 

Sybelle cried as she fought against the men's grip and spat at the queen. "You godless whore! I will pray every night that you die a painful death! I curse you Sansa Stark! I curse you and your foreign pet!"

Estyr’s heart skipped a beat. The queen was of the Old Gods and the blood of the First Men. She had protection. But Estyr knew Sybelle Glover was talking about her, _the foreign pet_ , and she knew the Old Gods had power, King Bran of the Six Kingdoms proved that, and they likely did not care for Estyr. Though none of this commotion seemed to bother the queen, she called for Gawen Glover, and the young man was slowly brought to her while others dragged back Sybelle, wailing over her husband's death. Estyr reminisced that a widow was made, on this frost fallen day.

"Killing his father in front of him, and making sure he sees. That's a message if I've ever seen one," Mira said from beside Estyr. 

“What’s the message?” Estyr asked.

“Don’t fuck with the Starks. Ha! As if the stories surrounding Ned Stark’s children aren’t enough.”

Estyr understood what she meant, likely better than anyone else. Though it seemed like a new thing to Gawen Glover as he walked towards Sansa, flanked by Stark soldiers, he stared with aching pain in his eyes at his father's headless body, now slumped on its side on the ground. Even as Gawen stopped before the queen, he continued to gaze at the corpse.

The queen rested her hands around Widow's Wail’s hilt. Its point in the ground. "Your father made his choice. Many poor choices." Estyr heard the queen say to Gawen. "You and your family needn't suffer for them. Do you understand?"

Gawen finally looked at the queen. "I do, Your Grace," he said with seldom interest.

"I hear you have a son," said the queen.

"I do. Jaren. He's six."

"Who is his mother?"

Gawen suddenly looked shy. "Lady Petra, of House Woods."

"Is he strong?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I know he will be a great warrior."

The queen lifted her chin. "Good to hear. Gawen you are now the Master of Deepwood Motte. I would take your oath and your son."

"What!" Gawen spat, shocked. "You can't!"

"I will. I just killed your father. It is only natural for you to want revenge or at least someone in your family would. Nor do I trust a Glover's oath alone. I will take your son, and he will return with me to Winterfell where he will be my ward. His life will keep your loyalty."

"And if I don’t stay loyal, you would kill him? He's only a child!"

"Then do your son, and I both a favour and do not betray me," the queen said grimly.

Gawen Glover glanced hesitantly at his mother and sister, then faced the queen again, with shifting, uncertain eyes. After a moment, he drew his sword, impaled its point into the grass and knelt on a knee.

"Gawen Glover," the queen began. "I ask you to pledge your loyalty once again to House Stark. To serve as our bannerman and come to our aid whenever called upon. Will House Glover stand beside House Stark, now and always?"

"Now and always," Gawen repeated. "I swear it, my queen." 

The queen offered him a smile as the last of the snowstorm slowed to a stop. "Stand, my lord. My armies will stay here and inside the castle until your son is brought to me. Take your father's body and bury him as you wish. One last thing. Those four guards, they are loyal men?”

“They are, Your Grace.”

“Loyal to your father. They will be going to the Wall.”

“Your Grace!”

“It is already done.”

Lord Gawen Glover, the Master of Deepwood Motte, left contrite and the queen handed Widow's Wail back to her captain. She stood there speaking to Aberdale and Aubrey who had come forth at her request. They talked for a long moment, in low voices that Estyr could not hear. Suddenly, the queen placed an affection hand on both of them, then proceed towards Estyr and the rest.

She stopped in front of them and said sternly. "Lord Cerwyn, you are in command of the armies."

"An honour, Your Grace," he replied.

The queen faced Estyr, with an unmoving and indifferent gaze. "Ride with me back to our camp."

Estyr sat in front of the queen on Winterrose, as they rode through the damp and dense Wolfswood. Her guard, Fred, Walter, Aubrey, Alyn and Aberdale surrounded them, galloping through the undergrowth and by the thick trees. The fresh smell of pines and the wet earthy odour of the forest floor, filling Estyr's nose. By the time they exited the Wolfswood, the sun was far below the horizon, and the moon and stars shone brightly in a now clear sky. The armies camp had a smattering of soldiers left behind to guard it and the queen’s tent, which also acted as the command tent, was pitched in the centre of them all.

It was lit warmly by candles arrayed amongst tables and dressers. A large oak table with an oak chair sat at the back of the tent and a smaller desk off in the corner housed pitchers and cups on it. The queen walked towards it when they entered, past another table with several maps and small stone figures. She took a pitcher and poured a deep red coloured liquid into a cup. She turned the cup over and drank it all in one fell swoop. Estyr heard her take a deep breath after and watched her pour more of the liquid into two cups. 

"You know, I almost didn't go through with this," the queen admitted. "The night before you left Winterfell with Wylla Manderly I almost called an end to it. There were other ways to take Deepwood Motte. If something had of happened to you... you could have been found and captured, held prisoner. Killed. Even now I wonder why I put you through this. You're just a child and I made you infiltrate a castle, who does that? Arya will be furious with me."

"You didn't make me do anything. You asked for my help and I gave it. And I'm not a child... Your Grace," Estyr said.

The queen turned with a broad smile on her face. She came to Estyr carrying the two cups and handed her one. When Estyr took the cup from the queen, she noticed that her hands were shaking ever so slightly. "Why are your hands shaking?" Estyr asked her.

"It was… much more difficult to kill Robett than I had thought. Watching someone die, is not the same as doing it yourself, with your own hands. Even weeks of practicing beheading's with Aberdale wasn't enough." the queen told her with a stoic expression.

"Are you worried, about the curse Sybelle Glover gave you?" Estyr said, looking at the liquid with uncertainty. _Should I be?_

The queen shook her head. "I've always been cursed. Do you know, we killed seven men inside Deepwood and lost four of our own."

"That's quite good, considering."

"None would have been better," the queen regarded her a moment. "Drink, you've earned it. And I hear we shared a first on this day. Aberdale and Aubrey told me you had to kill someone too."

Estyr glanced at the wine and swirled it around in the cup. She took a long gulp. It was mild with a hint of sweetness and the strong flavour of grapes. Not like the summer wine she drank at the feast. She took another sip, then glanced up at the queen. "I killed… a boy."

"That's his blood on your face and clothes, isn't it?"

It was, Estyr could not have forgotten how Erik's blood gushed from his thigh and neck and covered her face, damped her clothes and drenched her hand. By now, the blood was dried and flaking. She nodded solemnly to the queen.

"He was a boy, that would have killed you," said the queen.

"He was my friend, and I killed him. I think he was calling to me, I think… he might've—”

"Don't think of what could have been or what he might've done. This will only lead you to more pain. I've killed before, but never with my own hands. We share this today, and truth be told if Arya were here, I would have let her kill Robett. She was always better at handling those sort of things. But we have to do things ourselves sometimes, and we cannot live with regrets or what-ifs."

Estyr sniffled sadly and together she drank more wine with the queen. Though when the cup parted from the queen's lips her stoic, hard face of the Queen in the North, seemed to break down and become the gentler and warmer face of Sansa Stark, Arya Stark's beloved sister and Estyr's protector and friend. Sansa smiled and placed her cup on a nearby table as she walked off towards a basin of water in the corner of the tent. She returned with a damp white cloth and sat on her knees in front of Estyr.

"Do you know why I had to kill Lord Glover?" Sansa asked her softly.

"Your way, is the old way?" said Estyr though unsure of herself.

Sansa placed a gentle hand on Estyr's cheek. " _Our_ way is the old way. You may not be a Stark, but Winterfell is your home now, and you are apart of our family. You've shown the North a great deal with your work in Deepwood, and one day you may do even more. You may lead men, and they will look to you for strength, for guidance, and they will all judge you. If you are in a situation where the honour of you or your family is questioned, you will need to decide on whether to show mercy or to show the sword. I offered Robett Glover a chance to live his life on the Wall, and he rejected it. I showed him mercy. Then I showed him the sword. When the day comes for you, you owe it to the man you kill, to hear his final words and to look him in the eye when you kill him. Even if Arya killed in my place, I would still look the man in the eye and hear what he has to say. I did this with Lord Baelish, Lord Bolton and Lord Glover. I dread the day when I need to do it again, but it's what we must do. Understand?"

She sniffled and nodded at Sansa, giving her a small smile. Sansa lifted the hand that held the cloth and gently wiped Estyr's face, cleaning off the dried blood, dirt and sweat. Estyr fixated herself on Sansa's blue eyes as the events of the day raced through her mind. Sansa brought the cloth down to Estyr's hands, wiping from them carefully, the grime and blood. Once she had finished, she dropped the now dirty fabric on the ground and held onto Estyr's hands with her own, tenderly caressing them. Her hands were warm, soft and caring like a mother's. Estyr felt wetness in her eyes, the day's heavy toll coming upon her. She sobbed hard and threw herself at Sansa and wrapped her arms around her neck. Sansa did not attempt to stop her but returned the embrace, enveloping her arms tightly around Estyr's little waist. Estyr cradled her head in Sansa's neck, and she cried and cried. And for a moment, she thought she heard Sansa cry too.


	23. The Sister of Salt and Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is west of Westeros may be a question the crew of Grey Wind do not wish to answer, though it's captain guides her ship west, ever stalwart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to post, got side tracked with life and all that.

Tessa Fairmanne rolled the small toy ship in her palm as the real ship she stood on rocked across the water. The wooden, toy ship — that once belonged to Sera Fairmanne — was all Tessa had left of her sister, it was all she had left of her family. She lifted her light-blue eyes, wiped her fair hair from them and fixated her gaze toward the Forecastle of Grey Wind where her captain stood. The captain had a hand on the wooden rail, another on the hilt of Needle on her hip as she stared west, to the vast never-ending sea. The iron studs on her black, leather doublet gleamed in the sunlight, and her dark hair was unmoving, tied into a tight bun behind her head. Tessa knew the captain was gazing beyond the waters, where, in the distance, dark clouds grew ominously and furiously. Though, those clouds on the horizon sent fear through Tessa, as they did not seem like regular storm clouds. They were thick, constantly rolling around each other, and every few seconds, silver flashes of light lit them like lightning lit the skies at night. But what's worse, is that the skies above the clouds were as red as blood.

Discontent with the situation, Tessa felt her stomach churn with anxiety and the scraps of old dried bread and hard cheese she broke her fast with did not help. She returned the toy ship to her pants pocket, gone were the days of dresses, Tessa had not worn one since they left the Targaryen Islands, instead opting for the much more comfortable and functional, white tunic, brown cotton pants and boots. Tessa made her way towards the Forecastle to the stairs that led below deck. Grey Wind was a voyager ship built for fast sailing across the seas. It carried a deep hull with three levels of decks — The Main Deck, where the three-mast of the vessel stood tall, from the stern to the bow. The stern held the Captain's Cabin, below the helm. At the bow, on the upper deck of the Forecastle, was a makeshift rookery, where two large cages held six ravens between them. Stepping below deck was the Crew Quarters where fur rolled beds laid or hammocks hung and a large table nailed to the floor, for seating and eating. Littered against the walls, resting in chest or hanging on racks nailed to the ships inner walls, were the extra weapons for the crew, should they need them outside of their own personal weapons. Swords, spears, longbows and crossbows. The final deck below them all was the Stores, containing the cable store. Timbers, nails and supplies for repairs. Barrels of foods, salts and spices. Freshwater, ale, wine, or whatever food and drink they had left for their journey.

Tessa entered the Crew Quarters where she found, sitting at an oaken table on the port side of Grey Wind, sat Lyno Alestor, Pratt, Elyas and Barton. Lyno sat fiddling with the tip of a dagger, cleaning his fingernails with its sharp point. Alora stood over them, watching Elyas and Barton play cyvasse using old and crude pieces that once belonged to Barton's grandfather. Pratt sat at the end of the table, drinking from a cup, uninterested in the game.

Tessa came to their table, staring at the game pieces. "Who's winning?" she asked no one in particular.

"Barton," Alora answered. She was the ship's cook and dressed, as usual, in a dull white and stained garb that covered her ample bosom and big waist.  "It's always Barton."

"His bastard catapults took down all my dragons," Elyas complained, looking at Tessa as he did. "This game is bull. If a city like King's Landing that was surrounded by scorpions can't take down a dragon, what good could a fucking catapult do?"

She shrugged. "I didn't make the rules, Elyas." She took a seat and the end of the table. "Do we have any food Alora? I'm quite hungry."

"Aye, we've got some left. But ya gonna have to wait like everyone else," Alora answered.

"Are we still rationing?"

"Course we're still rationing girl," Pratt said harshly, finishing a gulp from his cup that Tessa assumed was either ale or wine. "We've been at sea for near twelve months with no land in sight, and almost all our stocks are gone. Now we're sailing into a fucking red storm, the likes of which I ain't ever seen. It's gonna be the end of us, I know it! But the _captain_ is set in her ways." Pratt was the oldest in the crew, and his face showed it, wrinkled with time and weathered from his years as a sailor, his old face was round and pock-marked finished with thin grey-black hair and grey, uneasy eyes. Like most of the others in the crew, he wore a basic cotton garb.

"And have you taken your complaints _to_ the captain, my friend?" Lyno said cooly, his legs stretched out before him, underneath the table. Lyno was a Braavossi, and like other Braavosi, he wore flamboyant colours. Today he wore a purple velvet tunic, with a padded leather vest over it and dark woollen trousers. His scalp was always hair-free, and the sharp features of his face finished with brown beady eyes and thin lips that seemed to smirk constantly.

"Well, no," Pratt replied nervously. "But we ain't seen no birds around, and even the fish don't bite. They know not to swim in these waters. The little fairmaid here needs to be told what's what."

 _Fairmaid_ was the nickname Tessa had earned from Pratt and many others in the crew when — one night after she had drunk a bit too much wine as they anchored just off Visenya's Island — she foolishly admitted to still being a maiden. To her disgust and regret, many that night offered to break her maidenhead before they set out on their journey proper. The Northmen, Holt, Haren and Wyll even said it would bring the whole crew good luck, and when she rejected them, they continued to try and woo her by calling her _Fairmaid_ instead of Fairmanne. As if that would have won her over. When the captain found out, she punished the three men by having them on Head cleaning duties for a whole month, a task no one looked forward to. The Head of the ship was below the bowsprit at the very front of the vessel and it was where the crew did their business. It smelled like a dozen men had emptied their bowels, and it's wooden decking, when not cleaned, was covered in urine and other distasteful residue Tessa did not like to think of. 

Since the day of the captain’s punishment to the three Northmen, none of them bothered Tessa again with wishes of breaking her maidenhead. Though Pratt was not as shy, continually making a crude comment here or a pass there. Still, Tessa only saw him as old and harmless. But she did wonder why the three Northmen were so easy for the captain to tame. They, and the other Northmen and Valemen, seemed to follow her every word without question, regardless of what it was. Tessa suspected it might have something to do with them calling the captain, the _Hero of Winterfell._

"Bastard!" Elyas screamed as he threw an elephant piece to the ground.

Barton laughed. "Why do you even play me, E?"

"Cause one day I'm going to beat you, Bart. You smug prick!" replied Elyas.

Tessa smiled at them. Elyas and Barton were old friends who used to work as shipbuilders, and no amount of harsh words between the two could do any damage to their friendship. They, along with Pratt, Alora and Tessa herself, were the only crew of Grey Wind from King's Landing. Lyno Alestor was a Braavosi and, as her First Hand, was the closest to the captain. Gidden, Haren, Holt, Symon, Wyll and Mikel were the Northmen. Big men and most of whom were former soldiers. They did not seem to talk to the King's Landing folk much. Rowen, Ossy and Donnel were from the Vale and seemed to get along fine with the Northmen and had no problem with talking to Tessa or Pratt or anyone else. In fact, the only person on the entire ship who did the least amount of talking was the captain. And for the longest time, Tessa wanted to change that. She desired to speak to the captain, to get to know her, to find out what made her tick, though the captain seemed to hold things close to her chest.

"Fairmaid," Pratt called, catching Tessa's attention from across the table. "What's say you and I head down to the Stores and break open some of that ale the captain's been holding. And maybe I can break something of yours as well," he said flashing his broken front teeth at her.

Tessa cringed. Pratt was bolder when he knew the captain was not in earshot, though that boldness today, departed as quickly as it came, as the captain had somehow appeared beside the table without a sound to betray her presence. She had a habit of doing this, mystically emerging right beside people without a sound; some of the crew believed it to be magic.

"Captain!" Alora said with a startled tone, being the first to notice her. "Come to watch Elyas fail at cyvasse?" 

The captain did not answer her. She stood as still as death, staring daggers at Pratt. Tessa saw the apple in his throat bob about as he swallowed hard, and everyone glanced between the two tensely waiting for what would happen. Finally, the captain sauntered around the table and stood right beside where Pratt sat. 

He swallowed hard again and let go of his cup. "Captain," he said, trying to feign cheerfulness.

The captain stepped closer to him, so close it was intimidating to even look at, and it only seemed to make Pratt uncomfortable. Then the captain placed a small hand on Pratt's shoulder, grasping it firmly. "If you touch Tessa," the captain said methodically. "I will make a eunuch out of you." 

Tessa smiled as once more Pratt swallowed hard. "I won't captain, I swear it," he said. Tessa was twenty, a year older than the captain who was, in truth, the youngest person on the ship, though the captain had a command and presence of someone much older, and Pratt knew well the danger of not listening to her. Shortly after they had begun rationing food, Pratt became furious with the idea, swearing black and blue that it would do them no good and that they should return to Westeros before they go any further. The captain chose to ignore him, but day in and day out, Pratt would complain and spread further turmoil and foul words, even in the presence of the captain. One day on the main deck, it got to the point that Pratt chose to disobey an order from the captain, challenging her that he will not follow any more of her orders until she turns Grey Wind around. The captain did not answer or scold him. She simply stared at him for such a long time, it made everyone who witnessed it uncomfortable until she left that scene without saying a word.

However, on the very next day, the captain asked the men of the crew to help her practice her sword work, they spent the better part of the day clashing steel together joyfully and sharing stories of battles long gone or wonderous sword fights they had seen. Tessa stood by Alora, watching the men and the captain duel each other, though never really being serious about it. Near the end of it all, the captain approached Pratt and asked him to join. He had sulked alone watching the others, but he was the oldest in the crew and likely the most experienced at fighting on a ship, what with being a former sailor in the Lannister navy and Tessa expected that the captain wanted to see his worth. Pratt accepted the captain's offer, no doubt, thinking he had the opportunity to embarrass her. But as they stood apart in the centre of the Main Deck, prepared to duel, the captain removed the leather belt from her waist that held her sheathed swords and threw it to the side, accosting Pratt unarmed. Pratt demanded to know what she was thinking of doing, saying that she needed a sword for them to duel. The captain simply answered: "Don't worry. I'll have a sword in my hands before the end." 

They took to their fight, and Tessa quickly gathered that Pratt had little chance. The captain moved faster than Tessa's eyes could keep up, she dodged Pratt's attacks swiftly, spun around him as if in a dance, and kicked at his legs, toying with him. Finally, after Pratt swung a frustrated attack with his sword, the captain moved in and disarmed him in a flash, used his own sword to cut him across his breast, then knocked him hard to the floor. She kicked brutally at his hand that tried to grasp at the cut on his chest, and then the captain laid a foot directly into Pratt's face, smashing his front teeth and causing his nose to bleed profusely. It was cruel to witness, but Tessa knew what the captain was doing, this was no longer practice for her, perhaps it never was. It was a lesson to Pratt and the entire crew.

The captain threw Pratt's sword on the deck and stepped beside him, looking down at his bleeding, sad slump with a scowl on her face. "I was hoping you could have given me some good practice. I am disappointed. If you no longer have faith in our journey, then jump in the sea and swim home. Find out how far your cowardice will take you. If you choose to stay on _my_ ship, you follow _my_ orders. If you ever disobey me again, I will drown you in the Head and let the shit-water clog your lungs."

Tessa had the duty of healing Pratt's cut, cleaning it with boiled wine and delicately stitching the wound. It was not deep, and it did not stop Pratt from lamenting on what had happened, wondering how in the seven hells the captain could move like that. When Tessa could not answer those questions, he would result to his usual attempts at wooing her, even as she was helping him. Tessa took a bit of pleasure in the spasms of pain Pratt would suddenly have when she made her stitching needle dig deeper into his skin when his words became a bit too crude for her liking.

Now she felt slightly guilty for the pleasure she took in the discomforted look that graced Pratt, as they sat at the table in the crew quarters. Pratt would not disobey the captain again, not after what happened in their little duel months ago, though Tessa could not help feel sorry for the aged man, as his face showed genuine fear while the captain held a firm grip on his shoulder. Finally, the captain let go of her grasp, and her face relaxed. She turned to Grey Wind's First Mate, "Lyno, I need you on the helm with me."

"Just so, captain," Lyno said, shooting up from his chair.

And just as quickly, Tessa shot up from her seat. "May I join you?" she asked the captain. Perhaps this was an opportunity to speak to her, Tessa thought, even if it was only regarding the voyage. The captain queried her with a look, and Tessa knew she would refuse her. Yet, to her surprise, the captain nodded. And together, the three of them ascended the decks of Grey Wind.

When they stood together in front of the helm, the captain's small hands gently guiding the wheel, they all peered to the clouds in the distance with the red skies above them. "What do you think?" The captain asked.

"Heavy, those clouds are. And that sky of blood grants no welcome," Lyno said as he closed the monocular in his palms. "No matter how far north or south we've travelled, those clouds have always laid to our west. Time is not on our side, captain. We must head through the storm, or sail back home. Just so."

"Grey Wind is our home. We aren't turning back." said the captain sternly. "How long until we reach the storm?"

"We've had strong winds. After noon, I'd say"

"Prepare the crew. Get them to take the ravens below deck, lock storage, set the sails and rigging and put everything loose in chests or in the Stores."

"Just so, captain."

"Should we not tell someone?" Tessa spoke up. She had been quiet the whole time, opting to take in all she could rather than contribute. Yet she could not shake the ill feeling she had when she saw those dark clouds rolling beyond them. "Perhaps we should send a raven to Westeros, is all I mean. Let them know where we are, what we're heading into?"

The captain eyed her knowingly, then turned back to Lyno. "Make sure three of the ravens have eaten and are ready to fly, then prepare my cabin — ink and parchment."

"To whom will you be writing?" Lyno asked.

"I won't be. Tessa will be writing to Winterfell and King’s Landing. She is now my Steward."

Lyno regarded Tessa with a smile, gave a curt bow to the captain and rushed down the stairs from the helm to complete his orders. Tessa gazed at the captain uncertainly but with a spark of conviction. Up until now, all she was on the ship was a glorified healer that offered little else but a pleasant sight for the men in the crew, as she saw it. She knew very little about ships and how to properly sail them. Ships were always Sera's and their father's area of knowledge and even with the small amounts of training and advice the men gave her it seemed to just fly over her head. Now, however, she was suddenly named the captain’s Steward? She did not know what to think, and if she was honest with herself, she did not even know what a Steward did. But she felt pride in taking that title regardless. Though, it had been a long time since she had put ink to parchment, since before her uncle had died. But she remembered the words true enough, although she did not remember ever telling the captain this fact.

"How did you know I could write?" Tessa asked the captain, eying her cautiously.

"You said your uncle taught you healing, and that must be true because I've seen you set bones, and mend cuts. I'd guess your uncle was wise enough to teach you to read and write as well. Am I wrong?”

Tessa shook her head with a smile, "No, it was the first thing he taught my sister and I. Then came other lessons. He did not have many links on his maesters chain, but he knew healing well. Captain, I have to ask. What does a Steward do?"

“You’ll do everything that I am already tired of doing. Count the food and supplies we have in the Stores. Manage the crew’s rations. Write letters, take care of the ravens. Make sure my bedding is clean. Make sure no one enters my cabin and anything else I ask of you.”

Tessa smiled. “I’ll do my best, captain.”

"I know,” the captain replied assuredly. “Your uncle, what lord did he serve?"

"Ser Quincy, and sometimes my uncle's brother... my father."

The captain shot her a look. "You're high born?"

Tessa gave her a sheepish grin. "Not really, my captain. I lived with my sister, father and mother in a small keep that Ser Quincy Cox had granted father for his great work as a sailor. That's what he said anyway, but I honestly think it was because he favoured mother. Uncle served Ser Quincy, and a few others in Saltpans."

"What were you doing in King's Landing then? Saltpans was far from the Dragon Queen's war."

"We had not seen the dragons, so we all thought they were just stories the Dragon Queen made up to scare us," Tessa told it, as she fiddled with her hands. "And father, nor Ser Quincy, did not wish to face Queen Cersei's wrath. So when she called her banners, we were amongst those that rode to the Capital. Father might have to go to battle, we thought, but we also hoped King’s Landing would be the safest place with all the wars happening. We were wrong. The battles kept happening. The dragons were real, and thousands died even before they burned the city. We prayed every night for the people of Westeros, and an end to the slaughter."

"Never came?" The captain ventured. "And I see that you still pray." Tessa nodded her head, full of sorrow. There was a hint of truth to the captain's words. Prayer to the Seven was a habit Tessa's mother had ingrained into her and Sera. It was a calming ritual she did before she slept and sometimes during the day as she held on tight to Sera's burned toy ship. "Why still pray when they bring you nothing?" Asked the captain finally.

"They brought me you," Tessa blurted back, almost unintentionally. "I prayed and prayed with Sera for someone to help us. And you came through the dust and fire and brought us from that falling tower."

"I did nothing. People still died."

"I didn't." Tessa could see that day now as distinct as ever. The crumbling red tower she hid in with her sister Sera, and others just trying to survive. Tessa and Sera held tight onto each other, Sera cried, calling for their father who the Dothraki had cut down moments before. Tessa held Sera close and whispered into her ear, while the dragon roared in the falling skies. "Pray with me, little sister,” she whispered as Sera wept. “Pray like mother did. Someone will come! This will all be over soon."

A vast explosion shook the earth, and another building outside fell with the added hammering of a descending bell. Then from the dust and ashes came a small woman, dressed in ash-covered brown leather and two swords at her waists. Tessa did not know who she was at that time, not until later did she learn that it was Arya Stark, the war hero and future Captain of the Grey Wind. Arya Stark rushed into the building and knelt by a short-haired woman and her child.

"You can't stay here," she said. "You have to keep moving."

"We can't go out there!" Spat a scared woman.

"You have to," Arya Stark replied.

"Everyone out there is dead!"

A boom echoed in the distant city, and Arya gazed around at the shocked and frightened people. "If you stay here, you'll die!" Her voice was thick with command. She stood and lifted the short-haired woman by the arm. "Follow me. Follow me!"

So they did. Tessa and Sera were the last to follow, and the shaking booms rocked the earth and screams of people filled the city streets. Though all those that had followed Arya Stark soon had to flee, as Dothraki galloped through the street, they stepped out to. In the chaos, Sera had become lost in the crowd, and though Tessa wailed and cried for her sister, she had to force herself to turn and run from the Dothraki and the oncoming dragon, or face slaughter. She ran down an alley beside the building she had just cowered in as it began to crumble and fall in on itself. Ultimately, the dragon's fiery roar came down and in its wake, silence.

At the end, when the slaughter was over, Tessa found her little sister. Her small body limp, charred and lifeless. Melted to her tiny hands was the toy ship their father had made for her. "I want to go on a ship like father! To sail the waves and see all the beasts in the oceans!" The memory of her little sister's sweet voice and dreams brought a sad smile to Tessa's face. She felt the warm tears slide down her cheek; she wiped them away and looked at the captain, Captain Arya Stark. Many people may have died on the day the dragon fire came to King's Landing, including Sera, she would never sail the seas. And it was because of Tessa that she was gone. Tessa was supposed to look after her, to protect her. But she lost her. She failed her little sister. She hoped sailing across the sea with her sister’s toy ship would bring her sister some peace, in the land beyond.

She felt for her sister's toy ship in her pocket and gripped it tightly. "The Gods brought me you, and I am grateful," Tessa Fairmanne said to Captain Arya. She was alive because of Arya, and that had to be enough.

Arya offered no words that would betray her thoughts or emotions, her hands glided across the wheel of Grey Wind, turning it ever so slightly.

"Do you pray, captain?" Tessa asked, trying to break the silence.

"You don't pray to death," said Arya, coldly. "You fight it."

"Death is your God? There are some who pray to the Stranger."

"And there are some who say we live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant named _Macumber_."

"With everything you've seen, captain, you doubt that?" Tessa replied with a smirk, though Arya did not concede a smile to creep on her own face. Tessa opted to move the subject on. She contemplated the rolling clouds they sailed closer towards then spoke up once more. "What do you think is beyond those clouds?"

"More water," Captain Arya said plainly.

Tessa allowed a chuckle. "I think there will be land: great green plains and vast forests. Beautiful waterfalls and gracious animals."

"You remind me of my sister when she was younger," Arya said. "Is that what you _think_ we'll find? Or what you _pray_ we do?"

Tessa thought on that for a moment, then once again turned to Captain Arya with a smile. "Both."

Arya smirked faintly. "I don't have much use for prayers. But I do need you to write those letters to Westeros. They aren't going to write themselves."

"What do I write?"

"Lyno will show you."

* * *

When they passed through the threshold of the storm, it was much worse than Tessa, or anyone else could have imagined. The wind lifted the seas as high as sixty feet or more, and there were several times Tessa thought Grey Wind would not survive the next massive wave that came towards them, she feared their ship would capsize in the middle of this unknown sea and its ferocious storm. Thankfully though, that did not seem to happen, so far at least.

Tessa held on for her life, grasping as tight as she could to the thick rigging rope that led up to the centre mast. As the skies pelted them with heavy rain, lightning that cracked through the clouds all around them, and rolling thunder that never seemed to end, she tried to gaze across the ship at where the other crew members were. The thick mist of heavy rain blocked most of her vision, but she witnessed Alora, grasping at the archway leading into the Forecastle. She spotted Elyas and Barton who had tied themselves to the centre mast, hoping to wait out the storm. Donnel and Rowen pulled hard at rigging, trying to manage the heavy, direwolf emblazoned sails. Standing high on the helm, grasping at the wheel was the captain and Lyno, navigating the ship through the chaos.

Lightning exploded around them once more, and Tessa shook with fear, her wet hands clung the rope desperately, and she wrapped her arms around the rigging, trying to get a better grip. When she was as safe as she could have been, she dared to look up towards the harrowing skies. Rain smashed into her eyes, and she attempted to gaze at the thick, black clouds above them. Though nothing seemed to pass through their darkness, Tessa could spot the blood-red skies that lay high above the storm clouds, and she thought anxiously on what sort of hellish magic could have crafted something like this. Tessa lowered her head down, her body shaking with wet-cold and terror, and she pulled out Sera’s toy ship from her pocket and gripped it tightly. _Gods protect us_. She began a silent prayer as the skies above tore at the sea. _Lead us from this storm, from this awful hell! We are all good people, help us to land so we may continue living and serving you!_

Grey Wind sailed into another coming wave. This one seemed taller and wilder than the last. As the direwolf crested ship lurched forward into the hurtling water, Tessa felt sudden vertigo it gave her when the ship's hull began to tilt against the onslaught. She held on as tight as she could, but an eruption of thunder seemed to strike right behind her, and she jolted with hysteria; her wet handed grip on the rigging came loose. Tessa fell hard to the ship's wooden decking and slid across the vessel to its port side. This ship's heavy tilt on the wave made her crash and slide across the deck. She would not let go of her sister’s toy ship, but she tried desperately with her free hand to grasp on to something to save her.

Elyas held out a hand though his reach was too short and having tied himself to the mast meant he could not jump to her aid. Tessa slid helplessly further across the ship, ever closer to the edge. She screamed for help, fearing she would fall through the gap in the rail and into the dark waves. But then, callous hands grabbed her suddenly and hurled her to her feet in one motion. It was Pratt. The old man grinned at her and laughed as he held her tightly. Tessa looked at him dizzy and scared, but thankful. She wrapped her arms around him, never wishing to let go.

Pratt hugged her back, but quickly pushed her off. "Ya like this Fairmaid, eh?" He said with a loud hysterical laugh. "This is sailing! Ha, ha!" Tessa noticed that Pratt had a thick rope tied around his waist, the other end led to the Forecastle. It allowed him to move around the ship without fear of falling overboard, or pull himself back to safety should he slip on the water covered deck.

For the remainder of the harrowing journey, Tessa remained by Pratt's side, and he held her close willingly. Pratt seemed to laugh and smile the whole time, once he had questioned heading into this storm and seemed almost afraid of it, yet now he welcomed it like an old friend. Grey Wind careened and croaked across the waves. The foresail tore open, the rails on the starboard shattered against the weight of water. Silver lightning shot down from the black clouds near enough that it would have hit them were the ship only a few inches closer. And the blood-red skies ominously drifted above them, sending this onslaught of a storm that Tessa thought would never end. Though it did.

Tessa and Pratt stepped out timidly from the Forecastle, as the rain slowed down. The black clouds and red sky above them still sent thunder and cracks of lightning. The golden sun, however, seemed to shine through the thinning clouds to the west. Eventually, as they continued to drift aimlessly, the rain ceased, the clouds broke apart, and the sun beamed its warmth upon Grey Wind. Tessa and Pratt walked out to the Main Deck, others — such as Alora, Wyll, Mickel and Ossy followed them. Rowen picked himself up from the decking. Barton began to untie himself and Elyas from the centre mast, and even the captain walked down the steps from the helm, gazing with a smile at the clearing skies. All of them had become drenched in rainwater. Some such as Rowen, Pratt and Tessa herself had small bumps and cuts from tumbling around during the storm, but they were all alive.

"We made it lads!" Pratt bellowed with a laugh, and he picked Tessa up by her waist and swung her about him like a feather. The others cheered and whooped, Tessa giggled with joy, she even spotted the captain giving the crew a rare, toothy smile.  

Something else above them seemed to join in the commotion. The crew came to silence when they heard the chirping and gentle cawing song. Tessa followed the eyes of the others, and she saw what she thought to be the greatest gift the gods could have given them, they had answered Tessa's prayers. As flying high above them, seemingly leading Grey Wind to land was:

"Seabirds!" Rowen called joyfully. "There's land nearby, we've found land!"

"We fucking made it!" Elyas yelled, and he grabbed Alora and began to dance with her to the song of happiness. Tessa joined in and jigged along Grey Wind's deck. She moved from Pratt and spun to Rowen, he grabbed and sent her on a twirl causing her soaked cotton tunic to flick water everywhere, but no one cared. Tessa laughed with delight, and she continued to spin herself towards the captain, who was still smiling at them all. She wanted to grab Arya and hold her tight, she wanted to dance with her and tell her she had prayed for this moment and the Gods responded.

But as Tessa moved toward Captain Arya, the sea on the ship's port side began to tear open. Tessa stopped herself when she noticed it, and she cautiously stepped towards the edge of Grey Wind, her heart quickened at the sight, the joy she felt not seconds ago was suddenly replaced with another swell of anxious fear. 

She felt Arya step beside her, staring at the water. "What is that?" Tessa asked her.

"Nothing good," replied Arya calmly.

Tessa looked back at the ocean and wondered what could be happening. Was it a whirlpool? Her father had told her of such things. But whirlpool's were supposed to twist the sea to its centre, like a puddle of water going down a small hole. Yet, the ocean before her seemed to suck inward, as if something was surfacing from it. And something did come out.

First came its bow. The long point pierced through the water, pointing upward. It led the prow that surfaced next, with a figurehead of thick man-beast gesticulating forward with one hand. The rest of the vessel shot out of the ocean depths in one swift motion. What had come from the shifting waters was a ship twice the size of Grey Wind, with a hull of eerie grey-green timber. Green seaweed and flailing fish fell from its mast and slid from its decking as the ship rocked on the water. It was four-masted with closed sails, but they quickly unravelled opened to reveal black velvet sails, wet with seawater, but no sigil or marking of any kind seemed to adorn them. The ship settled itself, then suddenly on its starboard side, the timber of the hull started to leaver open, giving access to its inside, though Tessa could not see into the ships hull. Instead, large circular iron figures were pushed through the fourteen holes of the ship. They looked heavy and dangerous. The circular tips, flanged at the end before its long steel neck disappeared into the darkness of the hull. The ominous iron that now protruded from the enemy ship, pointed directly across to Grey Wind's port. 

Tessa grabbed Captain Arya's hand, but before she could even speak, the world came alight with deafening blasts. The grey-green warship that surfaced from beneath the sea began a barrage of fire upon Grey Wind that tore the smaller ship asunder. The booming sounds that came from the ship, mad Tessa and Arya duck helplessly below the rail covering their head from the iron balls that shot out and shattered into the timber of Grey Wind

Arya spun around on her heels. "Lyno!" She screamed over the chaotic fire. "Man the helm! Hard to starboard! Get us out of here!" Arya rose to her feet and spun back around once more, facing the crew all cowering as low as they could. "Get your weapons! Longbows and crossbows! Fire all!"

Tessa held onto the railing, looking in awe at the captain standing high as splinters of wood and iron shot around her then the captain glanced down at her. "That includes you, steward!" She bellowed, and she lifted Tessa with a hand and drew her shortsword, Needle, with her other. 

As Grey Wind began to shift to starboard, away from the assailing vessel, two iron balls linked together with a heavy chain smashed into Grey Wind's centre mast. At first, it was just one, then several more came, and it split the centre mast apart, causing it to fall right upon Tessa and the captain. Captain Arya pushed Tessa back hard, and she fell to the deck with a firm blow, as the mast crashed down inches before her. Tessa crawled back, desperately trying to escape the onslaught, though it would not end for her. Thick ropes tied to the end of three-pronged hooks flew from the enemy warship. Dozens and dozens of them flung onto Grey Wind, attaching themselves to the splintered decking or rails, or whatever else they could. With them came heavy wooden planks that fell between the two ships creating makeshift bridges.

Men came running across the planks or climbed across the ropes as a monkey would climb across a branch. They carried in their hand's swords of iron that curved at the very tip and had serration on both edges of the blade. Others had short spears, with tips of pure black which no light seemed to reflect off. Or wooden clubs, flails and cudgels that also had the pitch-black stone on their bludgeoning points. All the attacking men wore an array of mismatched leathers and cotton, soaked to their cores, torn cut and clinging with seaweed, crustaceans and dripping salt-water. But what Tessa found most frightening about these men, is that their skin was as pale as milk.

The attackers screamed words to each other in a foreign language and yelled joyfully as they boarded Grey Wind. Tessa held tight to the toy ship and lifted her shaking body to its feet. She spun around and ran toward the Forecastle, desperate to get below deck. A pale man jumped from the Forecastle's upper deck and landed in front of her, and she slid to a stop. He gnawed yellow and black teeth, then hit her hard with a backhand. Tessa fell to the deck with a crash, and her sister's toy ship dropped from her fingers. It collapsed to the floor and slid further away. Tessa crawled towards it, trying to grasp it with her fingers, but the little wooden toy slipped further and further from her. Then a sudden iron ball blasted through the decking beside her and launched the pale man that attacked, flying. Tessa rolled away from the blast as splinters of wood, cut her arm and face, she cried in pain but rolled back looking frantically for Sera's little ship, but it had gone. All she had left of her sister, of her family, was taken from her, shot into the ocean depths. Tessa cried out with disbelief, her hand grasping at nothing but air. More and more pale men dropped onto Grey Wind, and Tessa forced her weak legs to lift her shaking body. She ran once more across Grey Wind's main deck tears swimming down her cheeks and fear flooding her heart. Tessa fled to a place she did not know, but only hoped to find safety.

As she sprinted, she beheld Pratt slamming his sword into two assailants. Barton and Elyas fought together. Barton had netting that he had wrapped around an enemy, and Elyas cut him with his sword. Rowen fought hard with a black-tipped spear he stole from an attacker. And even Alora fought the enemies, wildly swinging a broken piece of timber railing at two of them, but one man simply knocked the timber away, and he stuck his serrated blade into Alora's stomach. Alora grasped at the wound in her belly, she choked and coughed blood, and died before she even hit the deck. Tessa cried out when she saw it, but she did not stop running, she could not.

She rushed through as Grey Wind's rocked against the onslaught. The enemy warship gave another barrage of iron that blew apart the decking beyond Tessa, and she overcame the gap with an adrenaline-fuelled jump. After she landed, she slammed open the door into the Captain's Cabin and ran in, closing the door hard behind her. Tessa spotted the captain's oaken table at the other end of the cabin, and she cowered low against it, holding her knees close to her face and covered her ears with the palms of her hands that did little to block out the booming noise of battle outside the cabin, and the screams that followed. 

Tessa wept and moved her hands together, held them close to her face and prayed aloud. "Mother protect me, and the Captain too! Cast your protection on her, make her safe as you did for me! And find my sister's little ship, guide it back to me, I beg you! Warrior, shield Grey Wind and her crew. Make their words strike true and send these demons back to the depths! Father, judge us not for—” As if in retaliation for the prayers, a bang echoed close outside and half a heartbeat later the walls of the captain's cabin shattered open as the iron ball burst through, destroying chest and drawers. Sending wood, silverware, parchment and clothing chaotically around the room. 

Tessa screamed and held herself tighter; thankfully no debris appeared to hit her. Though her gratefulness could not last, as the door to the cabin burst open, and stood in its threshold was one of the attackers. His skin, pale like the rest and he dressed in worn leather — wet with blood. He gave Tessa a wicked smile and spoke a flurry of quick and gravelly words to her that she did not understand, then he stepped into the cabin raising his club above his head, the club had a top finished with more of that black stone that seemed to swallow light.

Tessa held out a hand, crying. "Please, no!" She pleaded. "Don't hurt me, please!" The pale man spoke more strange words as he approached and readied his club to kill her. But instead of striking Tessa, he fell to his knees, wailing with agony.

Captain Arya Stark stood behind him, her face a grimace of anger and fearlessness. Her shortsword, Needle, held out beside her after a successful slash. The iron-studded, black doublet she wore was slashed at the arms and chest, though no blood came from them. Her dark hair had fallen from its tight bun and was let out wild and loose over her shoulders and down the nape of her neck. Arya looked wild and ferocious. She stepped beside the pale man and pierced her blade through his throat, the man gurgled and cried out. She withdrew it, and he grasped uselessly at the new hole, clearly in desperate pain. But Arya looked at him strangely, and soon enough Tessa saw what she did. Despite the deep cuts Arya had given the man behind his knees, and the new hole she gave his neck, there was no blood. None seemed to flow from any puncture or cut; the only thing that escaped was air. Arya drew Needle up lightning-quick and thrust its sharp point where the man's heart should be, and almost immediately, his wailing stopped, and he seemed to die as he fell to the floor.

Tessa gazed at him with horror. "They don't bleed. Why do they not bleed?"

"I don't know," said Arya calmly. 

"Are they... dead men? Like you fought at Winterfell?"

Arya shook her head this time. "No. They talk, they feel pain, they fight like they've had training. The dead I fought were not like this. These men... they're not dead, they're just... not truly men."

"Seven save us," Tessa breathed.

"Your Gods have no power here," Arya stepped over the dead body, taking her place right in front of Tessa. "Get up and fight."

"They'll kill me!" Tessa objected.

"They'll kill us all. Make them suffer for it!" Arya sheathed Needle, grabbed Tessa by her collar and hauled her to her feet, then took Tessa's right hand and placed in it, her beautiful dagger. Tessa only ever saw it in passing on Arya's hip, now it gleamed at her in all its glory. Its hilt was of dragonbone, gilded with gold, with a gem of polished dragonglass embedded in it. Finishing the dagger, was the blade of grey Valyrian steel. "Take Dark Sister, and fight!" Arya commanded her, forcing Tessa’s fingers to wrap around Dark Sister’s hilt.

"I don't know how to fight," Tessa replied timidly.

Arya placed her small hand on Tessa's cheek and looked at her with those dark, deep and knowing eyes of a Stark. "First lesson," Arya said. "Stick 'em with the pointy end."


	24. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns but he may have changed. He reunites with Sansa, the Queen in the North. But the events of their past may come between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very dialogue-heavy chapter (which I actually enjoy doing,) so I hope you like that. The favourite for me was the Jon and Sansa scene!
> 
> Enjoy, let me know what you think!

Ghost ran ahead of them, jostling through the snow with both his severed and good ears pricked up, listening intently for game. Jon watched the white fur of his direwolf runoff between the trees and brush, and he smiled to himself.

"It's not too late, Jon," Tormund said. "We can always turn back."

Jon gazed into the thicket of the Haunted Forest. Still a few days from the Wall. "Bramir and Isrik would have made it to the Wall days ago and told them we're coming." Two young men they sent ahead on fresh, quick horses to inform the brothers of the Night's Watch of Jon's return and the five other Freefolk riding with him.

"Bah!" Tormund blurted in response. "We can still turn around, Bramir and Isrik would find their way back. And you Jon, you belong in the real North. Not on some frozen wall with a bunch of rapers, murderers and sad old men. You're a hero, a king!"

"We would have made you one if you'd let us," said Val. Jon looked to her, and her honey-coloured hair wore in a thick braid over her shoulder. She returned his look with her pale blue-grey eyes and smirked at him. Val was a beauty, with high, sharp cheekbones and a slender figure. Though the many leathers and furs she wore, often hid that. Shrouded in a bearskin cloak, Val road next to Jon on a grey mare. Her smirk parted, and she spoke to Jon again in her heavy accent of the Freefolk, an accent that was as thick as Tormunds. "I saw you fighting in Winterfell against the dead, riding that dragon and running through the castle. We all saw you fighting there and against that bastard Ramsay and before all that, at Hardhome. We wanted to name you our _King Beyond the Wall_ , keep you all to ourselves. Because you fight like a king should, but you denied it. Why Jon Snow?”

"I told you why Val," Jon answered. Val was a fighter herself, Jon had not known her well when the Freefolk were south of the Wall. Though he remembered her presence when Jon met Mance Rayder, the last King Beyond the Wall, and he remembered seeing her when Jon and Sansa attempted to get the Freefolk's aid against Ramsay. It was not until Jon was exiled to the Wall a second time and was giving the duty of guiding the Freefolk to a new home, did he begin to know the type of woman Val really was. She was capable, she knew how to hunt and how to fight, though she was not as skilled as Tormund, or Jon, Val could hold her own and the fact that she had survived both the Battle of the Bastards and the Long Night, paid further testament to that, as did it add credence to her bravery. Nor was Val one to hide her words, she spoke her mind even if it hurt. Jon liked that about her, Val's honesty was a refreshment that he was thankful for. His entire time with the Freefolk was months and months of refreshing life that he sorely needed. Upon realising this, Jon suddenly wished he had stayed with them.

"You swore an oath," Val said with a mocking tone. "That is why you could not stay with us. Because of an oath you made to a realm that threw you away when it benefited them."

"That is why," Jon said disparagingly.

"Pah. You owe them nothing. Your sister gave you up without a thought."

"Sansa had no choice."

"Everyone has a choice, fight or die. Sansa Stark broke a promise she made to you, and she did not even fight to save you from what she did." 

Jon sighed. "It was not that simple, Val. Sansa did what she had to, to prevent a war. Same with Bran and Arya."

"She should have chosen war," Val spat. Even as refreshing as it was, sometimes Val's blunt and direct way of speaking got on Jon's nerves. She did not hide her dislike of Sansa, though, there was truth to her spiteful words. Sansa _had_ broken a promise she made to Jon. On the day he told her and Arya the truth of his parentage, in the godswood by the heart tree, he made them promise to keep it a secret because he knew what it would do. Yet it was Sansa who broke that promise, knowing full well the damage it would cause. The secret became information that destroyed Daenerys, and that was exactly what Sansa wanted. Jon remembered her asking for his forgiveness for what she did, for what she made him do. And he remembered not giving her that forgiveness. He was not ready then, he was not ready now, even over a year later. He thought about that final moment he had with Sansa, Arya and Bran, at the docks in King's Landing and it hurt him each time, for many different reasons.

"Too harsh, Val," Tormund said. "Sansa's not so bad. Ah, she is very different from Jon, to the women of the Freefolk. But there is a fight in her. She is kissed by fire for a reason."

"There is no fight in her," Val replied.

"You've never spoken to her. Aye, she hasn't got the fight like us, a battle fury with sword and spear. But she fights with her mind and her words. And from what I know, she has not lost a battle. She might have broken a promise to Jon; it's not ours to question. But Sansa beat the Dragon Queen. No one else can say that."

"Sounds like you love her, Tormund."

"Bah, southern women don't like me. Besides, I don't think the baby crow here would like me being with his sister, ha!" Tormund bellowed a laugh towards Jon, Jon smiled in return, and they continued their journey in quiet.

When they packed up their final camp inside the Haunted Forest, Jon had changed from his scrap Freefolk garb of a white linen tunic, fur breeches and a brown-bear fur cloak into the outfit of a black brother. A black shirt, black pants, black leather boots and black moleskin gloves. Over it all, he wore boiled leather, sewn inside with wool, again all dyed in black. Finally, he threw over his shoulders the sable cloak, trimmed in wolf fur. He had not worn all this since he had settled with the Freefolk, more than a year past. The clothing was faded, the cloak had holes, and the shirt had become too small for him. But he was a brother of the Night's Watch, and black was always his colour. Jon's hair had grown long and wild, falling past his neck and often into his eyes. He tied it all behind him with a band of thin leather.

He made his final ride with Ghost, as always by his side, and Val, Tormund and their company of Lok — a veteran of the Battle of the Bastards and the Long Night. His spearwife, Brena — who was also a friend of Val, a woman as fierce as her, yet double her size. And their daughter — the eight-year-old Daya. Who carried a small spear with her everywhere. Jon would smile happily when Daya told him that she would protect him from all the vicious beasts in the forest. The morning sun peered over the looming Wall in the distance, as they rode out from where the Haunted Forest stopped, and a half a mile of sparse, tree-less and snow-speckled land lay. Jon had spotted the Wall a great distance away, but seeing it so close here, made him suddenly anxious. The Wall was weeping, and it seemed larger than he remembered and more ominous, with the sun silhouetting its towering manse. Despite Jon’s rising doubts, he sighed them away and ordered his horse forward. The two horn blasts to signal their approach, blew across the land as they came closer to the thick ice wall. When they reached the solid oak gate that led beneath the Wall and into Castle Black, it slowly rasped open and the iron chain that pulled it echoed its grating noise. When the gate stopped, five men came from the tunnel on its other side. Four of them wore dour looks on their faces, weathered and bearded, and Jon recognised none of them. But he did recognise the fifth. Howland Reed came sauntering in the centre, smiling wide. His thin hair was greyer than Jon remembered and his belly had more of a bulge, but his green eyes sparkled and he walked as if he were a young man.

"Three months late, First Ranger," he said, still grinning pleasantly.

Jon smiled. "Lost track of time, Lord Commander."

Lord Commander Reed stopped before them, as did the four, dour black brothers. "Well, I haven't received any orders to label you a deserter or hang you for exceeding your twelve months guiding the Wildlings. So, you’re welcome here, as is your escort. How long do they plan to stay?"

“A few days, Crow. No more,” Val stated coldly.

“Well then, come through. We have prepared some food and drink in the common hall. Mulled wine, bacon, sausage and hard bread."

"Ahh, a feast to break your teeth on," Tormund said jauntily. "I haven't eaten a good pig in months!"

They flooded into the common hall to a mid-morning feast with tables full of food. Crisp bacon filled the stone room with the smoky scent. Pork sausages, loaves of warm bread, leg hams and pork ribs littered across the platters and amongst them pitchers of the Night's Watch's famous spiced wine. They were greeted in the hall by Isrik and Bramir and together they all enjoyed the meal. Jon sat between Tormund and Val as they devoured the feast. Lok ate so much, his stomach began to hurt, and then he ate more. Even young Daya scoffed down on pork ribs and sausages, clear to Jon that she had not had a feast like this in such a long time. She and Jon laughed together as they belched and fed Ghost portions of each of their meals and Jon could not help but grin as Ghost happily wagged his tail while Daya scratched him behind his severed ear.

As they continued to eat, a handful of black brothers soon joined them, this time, Jon recognised them all. They were a few men from the group of former Lannister soldiers exiled to the Wall with Jon. There was the skinny and long-nosed Keran. Ricker, with the stump where his right arm would have been. Even Mott, with his deep scar below his lip down to his chin, had come and he was no fan of Jon. Greeting Jon last, was the ginger-haired and burnt faced Eddie. He hugged Jon like a brother and was likely the only man Jon could see as a friend amongst the Night's Watch. Despite the abundant scars on his face he had received from Drogon on the Goldroad, and that he was a black brother for the rest of his life, Eddie was full of life and contagious cheer. And he was one amongst few who made Jon's exile to the Wall bearable.

They shared wine and plates of ham and bacon as they caught up on their lives. Keran, Mott and Eddie were part of the order of Rangers, and given Mott's experience as a soldier, was granted the title of First Ranger in Jon's absence. Ricker was a part of the Steward's and happy to be there. Even with one arm, he could make a hearty pea soup of his mother's recipe, is what he told Jon. Davis, another of the Lannister soldiers, was stationed at Eastwatch by the Sea, the castle of which, Jon heard it, was still being repaired. 

While they ate and reminisced, Eddie decided to sing a song to his black brothers and for the Freefolk visitors. The song he told it, was called _A Time for Wolves_ , and he had heard it in King’s Landing from a fair-haired young woman after the sack of the city though he could not remember the woman’s name. “I think it was Tas, or Bessa? Or Lessa? Oh, doesn’t matter,” he said. The song was warming to Jon, not only because of Eddie’s soothing singer's voice, but because the song clearly sang of the Starks of Winterfell. “Here come the wolves, nowhere to run when the wolves come!” Eddie sang the chorus with a cup of wine sloshing around in one hand, his other gesticulating fancifully, and a wide smile marking his face. After a time, the heavy door into the hall swung open, interrupting the song and a dour-faced Night's Watchmen entered, telling Jon that Lord Commander Reed asked for his presence in the Lord Commander's Tower.

Jon sat opposite Lord Howland Reed at his desk inside the Lord Commanders tower. They drank a cup of mulled wine each as they talked. "I hope your time with the Wildlings has been as enjoyable as our time on the Wall." Lord Reed said.

"I can't say. More room to move, I suppose," Jon said and took a quick drink from his wine.

Reed gave a short chuckle. "True enough, the Night's Watch has mostly been rebuilding, Eastwatch. Mole's Town too, with the help of the Hornwoods of Last Hearth."

"Not much different from the Freefolk."

Reed's eyebrows raised as he sat on his chair across from Jon. "Is that so? Tell me."

"My lord? You want me to inform on the Freefolk?" Jon asked perplexed.

"That is your job as First Ranger."

"The Freefolk are our allies."

"They are for now, while you remain at the Wall and while Tormund remains as their leader."

"Tormund is not their only leader. He is one of many."

"All the more reason for us to stay informed of them. What if that group of leaders decide not to be so friendly to us, hmm? You were a king, Jon. Surely you know that you must keep informed of both your enemies and your allies. For they may be friendly now, but the next day is as unclear as the next year."

"You sound like Sansa."

"Ha!" Howland roared. "I wish! Tell me of the Wildlings, Jon."

Jon sighed and took a long drink from his wine, when he returned the cup to the desk, he regarded Lord Reed with a sullen look. "We have built a village just before the mountains of Thenn alongside a tributary of the river Milkwater. The village is named Mance. Another group has rebuilt Hardhome. Last we heard from them they had reconstructed the longhall and a few huts."

"Ships?" Howland asked.

"Nothing but small fishing boats."

"Hmm. And what is it like Beyond the Wall now?"

Jon gave him a sad smile. "Peaceful, my lord. Animals are in abundance for hunting — Deer, elk, hares. Then there are the Bears, wolves and shadowcats of course. Seems they were smart enough to hide from the Night King and his army. The Milkwater only freezes over for a few months, otherwise, it is alive with fish. Some months are much warmer than others, though it still snows in summer. But sometimes, even the snow melts so much that we walk on grass. Even the Haunted Forest becomes greener. It was never like this before — it was just constantly freezing temperatures and white snow as far as the eye could see."

"Funny you should say that because Westeros has had a similar situation. The winter that came didn't last years and years like people feared, ever since the destruction of the Night King and the end of the Long Night, the seasons seem to be shorter. Spring, summer, autumn and winter seem to come and go within a year, rather than years. The maesters of the Citadel cannot explain it, though the superstitious of us believe it had something to do with the end of the Long Night. However, the North still suffers from blistering colds and summer snows as well, yet these days we receive a raven from the Citadel nearly every three months, marking the start of a new season. We're currently in autumn and winter is showing its fangs on the horizon.

" _Winter is coming_ ," Jon said sullenly.

"No truer words."

"Have you heard much of Westeros? Is Bran well?"

"From what we know, Jon, your brother is doing quite well. The Six Kingdoms have been at relative peace, and there has been little issue with Bran's role as king. Though we are far away from King's Landing, so our news could be quite old."

"Have they forgotten that we exist yet?" Jon asked with a sour tone.

Yet Reed only smiled. "I won't lie, the Lords of Westeros pay little attention to us except for when they need to get rid of their prisoners. Some even refuse to see that they should help us, they think because the North is independent and that the Wall is in the North, then we are the North's responsibility and only the Norths. They fail to see that the Night's Watch, while linked closely to the North and its people, it is impartial to rulers and borders and it serves the entire realm, not just one kingdom. Being that as it may, we often have to beg or pay exorbitant amounts for supplies and materials. We've run out of stone to repair Castle Eastwatch for a start, and we are quickly running out of timber for its ships. All the other repairs along the Wall and its castles and forts have been postponed, we are slowly shortening on material to make clothing, and we never have enough weapons. King Bran has given us supplies, but with six kingdoms to rule and no immediate threat of Wildlings or White Walkers, our importance is low, and he has many other things to concern himself with. Archmaester Ebrose in the Citadel has at least sent us two maester, Anhelm and Ornwell, so not all is bad."

"Does the North not help?"

"They do. As I said earlier Larence Hornwood who is the new Lord of Last Hearth, had sent a few men and supplies to help us rebuild Mole's Town, and he has even helped restore a few villages and holdfasts in the Gift, per Queen Sansa’s orders. She herself has sent many wagons of timber from the Wolfswood along with stone and experienced stonemasons."

 _So she did become Queen._ Jon thought to himself.

"Still though," Howland continued. "She has the entire North to rebuild, as well as the fleet in White Harbour she has begun and the trade value the trees of the Wolfswood have with Braavos cannot be overlooked. So we cannot rely on her for everything, but I will need to speak to her about this all when she comes here."

"She's coming here?"

"Indeed. Queen Sansa commanded me that she was to be told of your return immediately. So when those young Wildlings you sent as messengers arrived a few days ago, I sent a raven straight to Winterfell. Sansa returned it saying she was already on her way. She should be here in a day or two."

"That's… good to hear," Jon said unnerved. "How has she fared as queen?"

"Well, she's been busy," Howland said and gave a short laugh. "Those hard Northern Lords made Sansa their Queen, and with good reason. After fighting for Northern independence, she has rebuilt much of the country, reseeded farmlands in the Gift. Created a few new Houses in the North. Turned a bastard into a lord and made another lord headless. She had Deepwood Motte taken from the inside, by some trick and manipulation she concocted. Forced Robett Glover to choose between the Night's Watch or death. He chose death."

"Well, Sansa always said she would deal with him."

"And she did. Cut is head off herself. Did it right outside Deepwood. In front of his men, his wife and their daughter and son. She made Gawen the Master of Deepwood Motte and had Robett's four loyalist guardsmen sent here. Clyn, Alec, Kay and Tobin. Three of them were with me when I met you outside the gate."

"But there were four men with you," Jon corrected him.

"There were, but the fourth wasn't one of Glover's men. Tobin died almost a month ago now."

"I'm sorry. What got him?"

"Desertion. He fled from Castle Black in the night. He was spotted in Queen's Crown trying to steal food. Queen Sansa was informed, she rode out and executed him as a deserter."

The words brought, flashing through Jon's mind, memories from a long time ago. Where he stood with Robb and Bran as they watched Ned Stark execute a Night's Watch deserter in the hills beyond Winterfell. A time many years ago, when he was a boy in a much simpler world.

"Did… _the Queen_ send you his head?" Jon asked Howland, remembering that Ned Stark sent the deserters head back to Joer Mormont.

"She did," Howland confirmed. 

And Jon wondered to himself, that if he deserted, would Sansa do the same to him? "You said earlier that you received no orders to label me a traitor or deserter, not to hang me or have me killed in any way."

"Yes. Queen Sansa and King Bran both agreed to allow you twelve months with the Freefolk and then return to the Wall. When those twelve months were up, and you had not appeared, I sent a raven to Winterfell informing the Queen. I received nothing back."

"Then wouldn't the decision fall on you, my lord?"

"It would… but, you are Jon Snow, I promised your father that I would keep your secret and protect you and your family. I have no intention of breaking that promise to Ned Stark, even now. Nor do I believe Queen Sansa would want me to do you harm."

 _Family_. Did he really have a family anymore? They were all gone far away. Sansa, Bran, Arya… _Arya!_ Jon shot to attention when he thought of her. "Have you received any news about Arya, my lord?" he asked hurriedly. 

Howland gave him a sorrowful look. "No, son. I'm sorry. She could have very well tried to send word, but the Wall is leagues from everything, and it is not uncommon for ravens to get shot down, or lost on the journey, especially now with how chaotic our seasons have been."

Jon slumped back into his chair with his hope and eagerness sapped from him. "May I go, my lord? I need to rest."

* * *

On Jon's third day at the Wall, a cavalcade arrived at Castle Black in a sea of steel, iron and leather. Soldiers, servants and retainers flooded into the courtyard as Jon stood next to Lord Commander Reed, with the eighteen other men of the Night's Watch of Castle Black arrayed in a line awaiting the visitors. Tormund and Val stood directly behind Jon with the rest of the Freefolk next to them. Jon grinned as he saw Aberdale riding in, leading four other soldiers in a tight formation, all of them wore matching steel armour and carried sword or axe at their waist and a round iron shield strapped to their back, with the snarling sigil of House Stark embossed on them. In the centre of the five guardsmen, Jon saw _Sansa_. She rode upon a mare, its coat as white as snow, a finely made leather saddle rested on the horse, over a cloth caparison of grey and white depicting images of grey wolves on white, and white trouts on grey. Attached to the saddle in a scabbard of gold filigree, was a longsword, the hilt of which was also coated in gold filigree with a shining ruby below its crossguard that was in the shape of a stag’s antlers. Sansa herself wore a grey gown trimmed with fur under a polished steel breastplate. The centre of which, embossed the image of a heart tree. A single pauldron covered her left arm that was in the shape of a snarling direwolf. Upon her loose and flowing red hair, sat a crown of iron depicting two snarling direwolves at the front, one raising the other. 

As her mare trotted into the courtyard, Lord Reed knelt, and Jon followed suit as did the rest of the black brothers. Though Jon lifted his head watching Sansa dismount the white horse, and to his surprise, he saw a girl, perhaps of fifteen years, come in beside her, dismounting from a smaller chestnut horse. She had the olive skin, and dark eyes of Dornishmen, finishing with long dark hair tied behind her. Yet she dressed like a Northerner, perhaps even, very similar to Arya. The girl wore a heavy black cloak of sheep's wool over a studded, brown leather doublet, studded leather faulds around her thighs and brown pants and boots. Jon narrowed his eyes when he noticed, attached to her waist in a supple leather scabbard, was a thin sword reminiscent of Needle. If he had seen this girl from a distance, he would have mistaken her for Arya. She dressed like Arya. She had a sword like Arya. Who _was_ she? As if to make the situation even more strange, the Dornish girl walked over to a young boy and helped him dismount from a black pony. The boy must have been no older than ten, but he was tall for his age and his light brown hair, shrouded a gaunt face. Dressed in a white linen shirt, with a patched doublet over the top, the boy jumped from his horse into the Dornish girls arms, and the woollen lined cloak that wrapped around him flowed as he moved. Jon noticed the pin that clasped the cloak below the boy’s neck. It shaped a silver fist on a scarlet field. 

 _House Glover’s sigil?_ Jon thought bewildered, but he could not dwell on it longer as he lowered his head again, noticing Sansa walking towards them, though it seemed, she came to Jon rather than Howland Reed. Jon saw her leather booted feet step in front of him, he lifted his head and witnessed her smiling down at him, her blue eyes glinting with happiness. Jon could not help but smile back. Sansa kneeled and with her hands upon his arms, lifted Jon to his feet. Lord Reed and the black brothers rose as well.

"Your Grace," said Jon once he stood straight. 

Sansa's eyes seemed to study him, looking him up and down, glancing past him towards Tormund and Val. She brought her eyes back to him. "You've let yourself go," she finally said with a coy grin.

"Not near enough," Jon replied with a broader smile. Then, they embraced.

Sansa's long arms wrapped around his neck and he wrapped his own about her waist. With her face tightly beside him, he could hear her breathing heavily with relief. The cloak Jon wore offered no amount of warmth that could equal this hug. They said no words to each other, Jon knew they did not need to in this moment. When they parted, Sansa's blue eyes were glistening, and she could not hide the smile on her face. 

She moved her hands down to Jon's arms and rubbed them tenderly. "I'm... I'm so happy you’re here," she said. Then her eyes once more went to Tormund behind Jon. "And the Freefolk too. Tormund, it's good to see you again."

Tormund pushed in besides Jon and gave Sansa a quick hug. "Ah, Sansa. Queen suits you, eh."

"I do what I can."

"You can do more," came Val's terse voice.

Sansa eyed her with a sudden furious glare. "Who are you?"

"Val, don't—” Tormund tried, but Val continued.

"Jon does not belong here. He should be free. He wants to be. He does not—”

"Val!" Jon interrupted her "Leave it be." The air felt colder, as he watched Sansa eyeing Val with a menacing glower. Howland Reed cleared his throat loudly, and Sansa turned to him.

"Your Grace, I'm glad to have you here. The King's Tower has been prepared for your convenience, and Castle Black is open to all your people," Reed said happily, trying to quell the situation with Val.

"Thank you, Lord Commander. We will be here for a few days. I will have my servants and handmaidens take care of my things."

"Your Grace, if I may. I know you only just arrived, but there are things of import that I wish to discuss with you as soon as possible. Perhaps we could head to my quarters and discuss them?"

"No. Let's go up on the Wall and discuss them there." Sansa said to Howland, and she turned to Jon. "I will speak to you after." Jon nodded and watched as Sansa ascended the stairs to the Wall's lift, with Aberdale and the four other guardsmen following her.

"You can't just speak to her like that," Jon said to Val. He and Val had retired to his quarters in the rundown Grey Keep, shortly after Sansa's ascension upon the Wall.

"I can speak to her however I like!" Val responded viciously, as she paced across the stone floor.

Jon sat on his creaky chair, looking into the small hearth then looked at Ghost who lay almost asleep, next to the fire. "Not to her Val. Not while she is Queen and not while you are south of the Wall."

"Pah! I do not care for Sansa Stark's pride. And I don't trust her either."

"You don't trust any southerner, Val."

She stopped her pacing and gave Jon a coy smile. "Can you blame me, eh?" She walked over to him in his chair, her face offering him a sultry look. Jon breathed in deep as he watched her approach and slowly lowered herself down upon him, sitting on his lap and making the old chair creak even more. "I trust you, Jon Snow," she whispered in his ear, and he felt her hand trace down his chest then slowly down to the mound of his pants. "And this friendly little wolf," she muttered again this time with a giggle. 

"We might break this chair," Jon said.

"Then we fuck on the floor," Val said harshly, and she kissed Jon hard.

Jon returned the kiss, but Val withdrew, biting his lip as she did and she began undoing the many layers of her clothing. Jon's fingers hastily worked at the fastening, though before even one came undone, a voice startled them.

"Stop," came the young voice.

"Lokh doysen!" Val cursed in the Old Tongue as she shot up from Jon's lap, unsheathing her dagger. "What the fuck are you doing here!"

Ghost shot up himself and growled violently at the figure standing in front of the closed door of Jon's quarters. The young Dornish girl that had arrived with Sansa stood there, with a straight face. She ignored Val's question. Her eyes went to Jon. "You're Jon Snow?"

Before Jon could answer, Val stepped in front of him. "He is, and you must be a dead girl!"

"If you're going to threaten me, you'd better have a bigger sword," the Dornish girl responded.

"Oh, cocky one. You want to try it, eh, girl?"

"I was trained by Arya Stark. Do you want to try it?" the girl announced proudly, and Jon's eyes widened at her.

"Why would the Hero of Winterfell train some arrogant girl like you?” Val asked unperturbed.

"Because she has a kind heart. What is your problem with the Queen in the North, hmm? Maybe I should let her know about them."

"Do it, and I will demand she brings me your head."

"You don't make demands of the Queen," the Dornish girl warned.

Val laughed, "Why? Are you her little guard dog? Going to stand by her heels and snap at anyone that questions her?"

"I might do more than snapping."

"Enough!" Jon cut in as he rose from the chair. He had enough of this farce, and he could see this going nowhere good. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

The girl took a step forward. "My name is Estyr, my lord. I’m your sister’s ward, and Arya trained me in King's Landing. They both told me about you. I was hoping we could speak… in private."

"Not happening," Val declared.

But Jon put a hand on her and gave this _Estyr_ a curious look. "Why would Arya train you? How do I know you're not lying."

Estyr shrugged, "Thought you might say that. Arya told me that when you first left for the Night's Watch when you were all younger. You said to her: different roads sometimes lead to the same castle."

Jon let out a breath. "Only Arya would know that."

Val spun on him. "I don't like this. She reminds me of a snake."

"I am a snake," Estyr said grinning.

Jon gave a short laugh. "I'll be fine, Val."

Val glowered. “Fine. I go, but Ghost stays.”

“Fine with me,” Estyr said.

The fierce Wildling woman still scowled harshly, but she dropped her shoulders and sheathed her dagger. When she made her way out of Jon's quarters, she slowed to a stop next to Estyr. Val towered over the shorter girl, yet Estyr glared up at her defiantly, and to her credit, she did not twitch or falter, and it only reminded Jon more of Arya. Val left without a word, and though Ghost had stopped growling, he stood their uneasily watching Estyr.

“This is Ghost?” Estyr said with a face full of wonder. “May I?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “He won’t harm you while I’m here.”

As Estyr walked towards Ghost, Jon strolled over to his desk and poured a deep brown ale into a cup, watching as Estyr slowly started patting Ghost’s head, then moving her fingers behind his ears. Ghost sat in front of her wagging happily. Even on his hind legs, the direwolf was as big as Estyr.

“Never thought I’d get to see a direwolf. He’s beautiful. What happened to his ear?” 

“It got bitten off in the Long Night.”

“Arya and Sansa told me about that night… horrible,” Estyr gently touched Ghost’s severed ear then looked over to Jon. "What's that?”

Jon glanced at the cup in his hands that she was asking of. "Night's Watch ale. Thousands of years old recipe."

"Can I have some?"

Jon smiled and handed her the cup, she walked over to the desk and gingerly took it from him, smelling the ale first then she drank a large gulp, only to choke and cough it back up. "Shit!" she blurted as she cleared her throat. "Gross!"

"Sansa did the same thing when she first tried it," Jon said with a laugh. "How did you become her ward?"

Estyr wiped her lips on her sleeves. "After Arya went west, she left me in Sansa's care. Sansa made me her ward and… that's it."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Jon took a sip from the cup and eyed Estyr. "Why would Arya train you? She must have only known you for a few weeks."

"A few weeks, true. But I'm not sure my lord, guess she took a liking to a common girl on the streets."

"You're not a common girl, Estyr. You don't talk like one at all."

"And you're not Jon Snow, _Aegon_." she shot back. "Funny what people call us."

He grinned and finished a gulp of the ale. "So, Arya just started training you,  a simple Dornish girl from the streets for no apparent reason, and also for no apparent reason, Sansa took you in and made you her ward?"

"Yes, except for two things. Arya had a sword made for me, and Queen Sansa has had me in her meetings and in court so I can watch how she rules and learn."

Jon's face contorted in complete perplexity at this news. "Truly? And why are you telling me all this?"

"You are Jon Snow. I want you to know that you can trust me."

"I barely know you."

Estyr flashed him a smile. "That's why I'm here. So we can get to know each other."

They sat in chairs by the hearth as they talked. Ghost laid between them on his belly. Estyr asked Jon a flurry of questions. About his time beyond the Wall, about the battle at Hardhome. His death and resurrection. The Long Night. The Dragons. And the most difficult, Daenerys Targaryen. Jon told her what he could, and in return Estyr spoke to him of who she was, this little girl who had fled Dorne only to suffer more in King's Landing, losing her mother to an Unsullied spear. When she told Jon this, his heart filled with guilt, if it were not an Unsullied spear, it could have very well been a Northern sword, a sword of the men that _he_ led. They moved on, she spoke of her time with Arya and their training and the talks they would have. Estyr showed Jon the sword Arya had made. It was indeed near-identical to Needle. However, the hilt had an image of a falling star below its crossguard and a rising sun pommel, unlike the weirwood face that Jon had fashioned on Needle's pommel for Arya. Then came her life with Sansa. Estyr trained in Winterfell, with sword, on horse and in lessons with Maester Wolkan and then further with Sansa. Jon once again stated how curious it was that this common girl was getting all this attention and training.

"Can't say I know," Estyr said with another shrug. 

Jon gave her an eye. "I sparred with Arya once in Winterfell. She beat me. You have similar training to her, but I think I could beat you if we sparred. And if I do, I think you should tell me the truth."

Estyr only laughed and rolled her eyes at Jon. "How much of that disgusting ale have you drank, my lord? You stupid. I'm fourteen this year. Of course you would beat me. Would you feel proud beating up a fourteen-year-old?"

Jon laughed now. "Well, I didn't mean it like that."

"Of course not," Estyr's smile suddenly went firm. "Arya and Sansa are good to me. They are good people. That's why they took me in. That's the truth, I know. That is the only truth I care about. Arya gave me a sword, and a means to use it. Sansa gave me a home, and a will to protect it. I owe both of them my life."

Jon nodded. "I understand. I won't push you on it."

"Thank you," she rose from the chair she had been sitting on and smiled at Jon. "I've enjoyed this, my lord."

"So have I. But call me, Jon."

"I've enjoyed this, Jon," she knelt down and gave Ghost a scruff behind his ears, then suddenly spun around, very similarly to Arya and walked briskly towards the door.

"You're leaving?" he called to her.

"Yes, I've got to speak to Queen Sansa."

"You're not going to tell her about Val, are you?"

Estyr stopped at the closed door, with a hand on the handle. "Yep," she said, flashing a grin.

"I'd rather you didn't," Jon said, though knowing it would not work with this quick-tongued Dornish girl.

"Sorry, Jon Snow. But Sansa is _my queen_."

Estyr left Jon and Ghost alone, the man and the wolf stared into the hearth, watching the flames dance around each other. There was certainly more to Estyr than she let on; there had to be. He knew Arya to be kind, but to do all she did for no reason? It puzzled him. Though perhaps Sansa could provide some insight, he thought. He did not like to play these games, maybe he had spent too much time with the Freefolk, but he did not believe that was a bad thing. 

Jon looked down to Ghost who was licking his paws. "We should have stayed with the Freefolk, boy." 

A sudden rasp at his door responded to Jon's words, Ghost pricked his ears up and glared at the door. "Come in," Jon said lazily. 

Aberdale Woodard, the Captain of Sansa's guard, opened the door and stepped in. Jon rose from his chair and gave the man an enormous grin. Aberdale had served the Starks since the Battle of the Bastards and had proven himself a great soldier and his time serving Jon and Sansa after that only proved him to be fiercely loyal and most of all, honourable.

"Aberdale, my friend!" Jon bellowed to him, and the two men shook hands.

"M'lord! It's good to see you again." Aberdale said, also smiling broadly.

"You too, you too. I'm not surprised that Sansa has put you in charge of all her guard. How are you faring?"

"Busy m'lord, but I enjoy it. And you, are you happy being back?"

Jon sighed. "I'm… sure I will be."

Aberdale gave a chuckle. "If it's between you and me, m'lord, I wouldn't blame you if you stayed with the Wildlings. You don't owe anyone in Westeros anything."

"Thank you, Aberdale. But it would be best if that _stayed_ between you and me."

"Oh, I know, m'lord. Being beside Queen Sansa, in her meetings and council has taught me a lot about people. More than I'd like to know. Speaking of which, she asks if you would join her in the King's Tower."

"I'm surprised she hasn't changed it to the _Queen's Tower_."

Aberdale grinned. "Maybe she ought to, m'lord. She is a good queen, but I reckon she ain't that vain do such a thing."

Stark guards littered the stairs and walks of the King’s Tower, the last four of which were members of Sansa’s more personal guard. They were the ones who wore matching steel armour, though it was not gilded and of the quality of a knight of the Kingsguard, it was nonetheless well made. The last two guards flanked the oak and studded iron door to the King's Tower, one of which was a woman and Jon gave her a short glance as he passed. The door to the tower was already open and they walked in freely. When Jon stepped in beside Aberdale, he noticed Sansa sitting behind a wide desk, calmly writing on parchment. The light from the fire in the hearth beside her made her red hair shine even more vividly, and the iron crown rested upon her scalp, the flames shimmering in its reflection. Across from her, sat the same young boy that had arrived with Estyr. And to Jon’s complete lack of surprise, Estyr herself was there, standing across the desk from Sansa, her hands behind her back. Jon felt as if they had walked in just after Estyr had finished talking. Aberdale announced their presence as Sansa returned her quill to the inkwell, folded the parchment, poured sealing wax onto the crease, and stamped it with a direwolf seal.

"Thank you, captain," she said as she rose from the chair and offered the parchment toward him. "Would you take this to the rookery? Ask Maester Anhelm if we may borrow a raven to fly to Storm's End. Take Jaren with you."

"Of course," Aberdale replied, taking the parchment from her. “Come on boy.”

"Can I go up on the Wall?" The boy named Jaren asked joyfully.

"No," Estyr said quickly. “Knowing you, you’d fall off the top.”

Jaren poked a tongue at Estyr, and Jon saw a smile creep on Sansa’s face. “When you are done in the rookery, captain,” she said. “Take Jaren to the training yards and let him watch the black brothers spar. He can partake in training _if_ he behaves."

"Yes! Even better!" Jaren bellowed, and he shot up from his chair and ran out of the solar, stopping in the threshold of the door, waiting eagerly for Aberdale. 

“Don’t fall over now,” Estyr said in a teasing tone back to Jaren.

Captain Aberdale smiled at Sansa and Jon. Jon returned it as Aberdale left, closing the door behind him. Next, Sansa addressed the Dornish girl. “Thank you, Estyr. You may go.”

Estyr bowed low. “My queen.” Then she left the room quickly, flashing Jon a sharp grin.

When they were finally alone, Jon faced Sansa looking into her sharp blue eyes. Then, respecting etiquette, he knelt to her. "Your Grace," he said with his head low. "You asked for me?"

Sansa stepped from behind the table and walked towards Jon. "You don't have to talk to me like that," she said, and he felt her hands on his shoulders lift him to his feet. She was smiling wide. Then suddenly, she hugged him tightly once more. "I've missed you."

"You too," Jon returned, and he embraced her. Sansa's hugs had a unique warmness about them that he relished. 

"How was your journey back?" she asked when they parted.

"It was fine, not very eventful."

"It was good of Tormund to give you a seven-man escort. Lord Reed tells me the Freefolk have settled?"

"Yes, we… _They_ built a village near Thenn. Some have started rebuilding Hardhome as well."

"Reed said you told him as much. The Freefolk should build trade ships too. They are welcome to trade with the North."

"The Freefolk aren’t seafaring people. But I'll let Tormund know."

Sansa smiled. "And what about you, did you settle?"

Jon flashed a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

"The warrior woman that was with you in the courtyard earlier today…”

"Val?" Jon asked with a slightly cocked head.

"Mhm," groaned Sansa. "She was very protective of you. And she doesn't like me very much. Estyr told me some interesting things she overheard…”

"Of course she did. Val doesn't like most people that aren't Freefolk," Jon said. It would do no good, to tell the truth of what Val really thought of Sansa.

"Except for you, I take it. Is she your woman? What do the Freefolk call them, Spearwives?"

"Ha," Jon let out. "Val is a warrior. But she is no one's woman."

"Her and Arya would get along," Sansa said with a coy smile. "It's clear that Val loves you. Do you love her?"

Jon broke his eye contact with Sansa. The words she said only brought him pain. The last person he loved, he had murdered. Daenerys Targaryen had been in the back of Jon's mind for many months, though his time with the Freefolk, Val in particular, helped him to forget, to move on. But being back in Westeros, especially with Sansa, brought everything flooding back fresh into his mind. In truth, he did care for Val, but he was unsure if he could ever love another like he loved Dany.

"I care about Val," Jon finally answered.

"But do you love her?" Sansa persisted with the question.

"Why is this important?" Jon blurted at her. Sansa was aware of Val's dislike of her, but was she threatened by Val? _Would you get rid of her like you got rid of Dany, Sansa?_

"I only want to know if my brother is happy," Sansa replied.

Jon sighed. When was the last time he was happy? _I don't remember it, that's for sure_. "I'm as happy as I could be," he lied. Then he asked, wanting to change the subject: "Have you heard anything from Arya?" though he expected the question to have the same answer Howland Reed gave him.

Sansa stared at him for a moment, but she moved on from her questions to Jon’s pleasure, though her face dropped with a sullen look. “We have. A raven delivered this to Winterfell, some months ago,” she reached underneath her steel breastplate and pulled out a folded and faded parchment. "This won't make anything easier for you… but Arya would have wanted you to see it."

 _Arya!_ Jon snatched the parchment from Sansa’s hand and unfolded it desperately. 

_306 A.C The voyager ship Grey Wind. Sailing in unknown seas, west of Westeros._

_In the hand of Tessa Fairmanne — Steward of Grey Wind._

_By the command of Arya Stark — Princess of Winterfell. Hero of Winterfell and Captain of Grey Wind._

_For Queen Sansa Stark._

“She called her ship _Grey Wind_ ,” Jon said aloud and with joy, remembering Robb Stark and his direwolf Grey Wind. But Sansa said nothing, he looked up to her, and her eyes were full of sadness. Jon returned to the parchment, more anxious than before.

_I was told not to be vague, and tell our situation how it truly is, no matter how foreboding it may be. Since we left the Targaryen Islands, Grey Wind has been sailing west for many months, though we have not seen land, nor any other vessel in that time. We started rationing food after four months. After ten months, the fish in the sea stopped biting. Now, as I write this, we sail towards a storm that seems to act as a boundary to whatever is beyond it. No matter how far north or south we travel in an attempt to go around the storm, it always lies to our west. So naturally, Captain Arya intends to sail through it. She is not afraid, but I must say, I am. The storm is not like the ones at home. Its clouds are the blackest black I have ever seen and lightning flashes through them without pause. Though what I fear most, is the skies above the clouds that are red like blood. I do not know what it is, nor what lies beyond them, perhaps our salvation, or our death. Regardless, I will follow my captain to the end. We all will._

_We are far from Westeros, but should the ravens we send, make it home, and this parchment finds its way to the hands of our countrymen, I ask that you pray for us. Be it to the Old Gods, or the New. I fear we will need all the help we can get._

_Tessa Fairmanne._

Jon’s heart fell heavy with fear and anxiety. He lifted his eyes to Sansa, who still gazed at him with sad eyes. "Has anything else come? Has Bran tried to find her with his power?"

"No,” Sansa told him. “I did receive a raven from King's Landing, Tyrion said they also had a raven from Arya's ship. The letter was the same as this one. But Tyrion said nothing of Bran looking for Arya."

"Is anyone doing anything!"

"What can we do, Jon?"

"Send ships out to find her! Send a raven to King's Landing, to Old Town, ask them to do the same."

"I've thought about that. I'm sure Bran has too. But I can't risk lives to sail west to find one ship in such a vast sea, especially with all this we now know might face them. A storm with red skies? What happens if the ship we send to find Arya is lost? Do I send more after that? Jon, believe me, I want Arya safe as much as you. But I have to think of the lives of the people I rule."

"More than your family?" Jon said spitefully.

"There is no one more important to me than my family. You know that. But Arya chose this."

"Arya chose adventure and life. Not death." Jon handed the parchment back to Sansa, and his anxious heart felt a sudden desperate want to find Arya. But knowing how hopeless her situation was, only made him more irritated and sorrowful.  “I… I wish…”

Jon felt Sansa’s hand on his shoulder. “So do I, Jon.”

He closed his eyes tight, to stop his tears, then shook his head violently to throw out the thoughts that pierced his mind. “The crew she has, are they good? Strong?”

Sansa removed her hand. “I chose them myself. Most are Northerners and Valemen. Soldiers and sailors. A few, like Tessa Fairmanne, are southerners or from King’s Landing, but they are all good people and skilled in their own way. Arya knew she was sailing into the unknown Jon. We… shouldn’t dwell on it.”

“I know… I know.” Jon breathed sadly. He desperately wanted to leave, to get on a ship or even ride to King’s Landing and make Bran find Arya with his abilities, to find out if she was okay. But he knew he could not. Not only was Jon a sworn brother, but Bran was a king now, he could not make demands of him, even if he were family. He sighed again and tried to move on. “The boy that was here before, who is he?” he asked Sansa.

 "Jaren. Gawen Glover's son," said Sansa. "I am fostering him for a time."

"Gawen Glover wanted to foster his son with you after what you did to his father?"

"Well, I didn't give him a choice."

Jon's expression dropped to a discomforted look. He knew what that meant. "You took Gawen's son from him forcefully, to keep his loyalty?"

"Yes," admitted Sansa. "You would have advised against it?"

"You know I would have. Gawen might bend the knee and call you his queen and swear his loyalty, but he won't truly be loyal to you, he will never respect you. He will never trust you."

"You think I don't know that? I do not care for his respect or trust. But I do know he fears me. And he fears what would happen should he betray me. It is his son that will trust me. Jaren will get to know me, to see me as a parental figure. He will know Winterfell, and it's people. And years from now, when it is time for him to take his seat in Deepwood Motte, I will have someone there loyal to me."

"That's what we thought would happen with Theon Greyjoy, and look what he did."

Sansa shot him a cold look. "Theon paid for that, Jon. More than enough."

"That doesn't change what happened," Jon replied calmly.

"It does to me. Do not speak ill of Theon," Sansa made her words harsh then turned abruptly and marched to the corner of the room to a table and began pouring wine from a pitcher into goblets. "Drink?" she asked curtly.

"What about Estyr? _Your Grace_." Jon asked, just as harsh.

"I'll take that as a no," Sansa said derisively.

"Do you have plans for her like you do for Jaren? She came into my quarters on her own. She told me Arya had taken her in, trained her."

"Yes, I expected she would go and speak to you."

"So it's true?"

Sansa spun around to face Jon and took a sip from her wine. "It is, what about it?"

"Arya just started training a Dornish common girl and gave her a sword? Then you brought her to Winterfell. Why?"

"I brought her to Winterfell because Arya asked me too."

"Estyr said you've been including her in your meetings and in court. Did Arya ask you to do that too?"

"No, she didn't. Is this an interrogation? What does it matter, why do you care?"

"Don't act the fool. I care because Estyr was keeping something from me. And so are you. It's not like Arya to do what she did, unless it was for a reason. Arya has a kind heart, but to go out of her way for this one girl she barely knew and to give her a sword and ask for her to be raised in Winterfell? There is more to why Arya did this. To why you're doing it."

"You know Arya so well," Sansa stated condesendingly, and Jon watched her eyes flourish over him, studying and thinking on her next words, as she was one to do. She placed her goblet down then gazed lazily at the ground as she walked from the wine table and stopped between him and the wide desk. "You are a sworn brother of the Night's Watch now. There is nothing you can do, and you're better off if you didn't know."

Jon scoffed, "Is that truly why? Or is it because you don't trust me?"

Sansa glared at him with shock. "How could you say that? I trust you with my life."

"Just not with someone else's, _Your Grace_."

"Stop talking to me like that!" Sansa commanded, her voice thick with frustration. She removed the crown from her head and slammed it hard onto the desk. "I'm your sister here now, not your queen! What has happened to you? Why are you being like this? I asked you here so I could talk to my brother, not for you to mock me and play the boy!"

Jon chose not to answer her. Instead, he carried his eyes to the table with the pitcher and goblets and made his way towards it. He could feel Sansa's eyes on him as he poured the wine and drank it slowly. It was sweet and musty, but it did nothing to help the situation. There was tension between them, Jon had felt it since Sansa had arrived at the Wall. Only now it was out in the open and exacerbated tenfold. 

"Do you hate me, Jon?" Sansa asked solemnly. "For what I did? Is that why you're like this?"

"I don't hate you, Sansa," Jon replied. He finished the remainder of his wine quickly and turned to her. "But you broke an oath you made to me."

"So it is why," Sansa looked to the stone floor, defeated. "Will you ever forgive me?"

"I don't know," Jon answered truthfully, and his gut pained when he saw a tear come down Sansa's cheek.

She wiped the tear away and stood back up tall, giving a heavy sigh. "If I could go back in time and were able to do things differently… I wouldn't. I would do it all again, the same way, without a second thought."

Jon shook his head with disappointment. "And how do you sleep at night, knowing you broke a promise to me? Knowing what you caused?"

"I sleep, knowing you're alive. I did what I had to do, to protect you, Jon. To protect our family."

"And it forced me to murder the woman I loved. Because she would have burnt you, and Arya. Neither of you would have knelt to her."

"No, we wouldn't have. I'm grateful for what you did, not only for protecting us but because you saved the realm from a tyrant."

"Dany wouldn't have become that if you didn’t manipulate things and just kept the secret like I asked you!"

"You don't actually believe that, do you?" Sansa said gravely. "Even if I had kept the secret, Daenerys would have turned sooner or later, if not because of what Cersei or I did, then because of someone else in the future. The signs were there. You just blinded yourself from them. Willingly." 

"And you were blinded as well. You wanted to destroy her."

"You would have made for a great king. That's what I wanted." Sansa stepped towards him and took his hand in hers. "Please, I don't want to leave the Wall with this still shadowing us. Do I have to beg for your forgiveness? Do I have to move the earth for you? Because I will. If you want to go back home to Winterfell, or... return beyond the Wall with the Freefolk. Val said you want to be free, hmm? I can make it so. I can take away your oath to the Night's Watch, you know? Pardon you."

"You'd do that? People would know why you did it, and it would set a precedent," said Jon.

"To hell with the precedent and what others think."

"What about the Unsullied then?"

"It could be years before they find out, and if Grey Worm sail's back here seeking war, I will give it to him and throw them all back into the sea."

Jon smiled at her sadly. There was still that spirit he knew Sansa had. "None of that will happen Sansa. You said it yourself. I'm a sworn brother of the Night's Watch now. Some of us take our oaths seriously." He pulled his hand out from her grip. "Will that be all, _Your Grace_?"

Sansa's eyes that, only moments ago, filled with sadness and desperation, were now filled with judgment, and spite. "Do you truly want it to be like this between us?"

"Is that a threat? Should I be watching over my back for the Queen in the North?"

"I would never do that to you. The fact that you could even think that hurts me. You are my brother, and I will love you no matter how much you despise me."

Jon felt a pang of guilt hit him. "I can't give you what you want, Sansa. I don't even know what I want anymore. What to think."

She lifted her chin at Jon and stared at him, thin-lipped. "Then I am sorry. We’re done here."

Jon nodded tersely, though despite the argument they had, he made sure to pay attention to etiquette, Sansa was still Queen after all. He knelt once again to her before he made his leave. He felt the coldness of the stone as he placed a knee on it. " _Your Grace_ ," he announced finally.

This time though, there were no hands to lift him, and Jon stayed kneeling with his head low for a much longer time. And yet he could feel Sansa's piercing blue eyes staring daggers at him all the while, and his knee began to ache the longer he stayed on it.

"Go," Sansa finally said, though the harshness of her tone, made the word cut like a dagger.

When he rose, Sansa had her back facing him. Jon gazed at the back of her head for a moment, the fire in the hearth, still making her flowing red hair glow beautifully. He reached out a hand for her but stopped thinking better of it. Instead, he turned around, and his outreached hand went for the oaken door. Jon dropped his shoulders and sighed wearily as he left the King's Tower.

* * *

Sansa and her procession left Castle Black the next day. Most of them had already left before Jon had woken. He stood between Eddie and Keran on the bridge between the gatehouse of Castle Black's southern gate, looking sullen as the last of them rode down the Kingsroad. "She said they were going to stay for a few days," Jon told them. 

"Maybe something came up?" Eddie offered.

"Maybe…”

"Don't dwell on it, Snow. We'll see them again." Keran said and patted Jon's shoulder.

"Jon?" Lord Commander Reed appeared up the stairs of the gatehouse, holding a thick bundle in his arms. "You weren't able to say goodbye to your sister?"

Jon shook his head. "No one told me they were leaving, my lord."

"Yes, well, it all happened very quickly. Queen Sansa said she had something important come up in the night and had to go. She left this with me to give to you." Reed held forward the bundle, and Jon took it from his hands.

As he inspected it further, he noticed the bundle was a newly made black, woollen cloak, delicately knitted together and finished with thick wolf fur at the neck. The leather strappings that held the cloak to the person, had the image of a direwolves head in the centre. Besides the direwolf, on either side, were more embossings of a raven with three eyes, and a short sword, identical to Arya's Needle, even down to the weirwood face on its pommel.

"Bloody hells!" Eddie exclaimed loudly. "Did the Queen go all the way to Volantis to get this made?"

Howland shook his head. "No, she said she—”

"Made it herself," Jon finished. He caressed the sigils on the leather tenderly.

"Gods, did she make all of us one?"

"I'm afraid not, Lord Eddie," Howland answered. "Jon, the Wildlings are leaving today too."

"I know," Jon replied.

Midday came when it was time for the Freefolk to leave. The day was chilly, and Jon chose to put on the new cloak Sansa had made, though, for some reason, he felt guilty even to wear it. Jon met the Freefolk in the courtyard near the tunnel, before they were to go under and out the other side. He saw Bramir and Isrik first, and thanked them for their help. Lok and Brena both gave Jon a great hug, telling Jon they wished he came with them, as did their daughter, the young Daya. After Jon hugged her, she had tears in her eyes and asked Jon: "Will you come visit?"

"I might," he answered, smiling. "The next day is as unclear as the next year."

Daya beamed at this. "Please do! We can hunt deer in the forest with Tormund, father and Ghost like before! It will be so difficult to get deer without Ghost helping us now."

Jon ruffled the girl's hair and laughed. "Are you kidding, you're the best of the Freefolk with a bow! Hunting deer is nothing for you, Daya." Jon put a finger on his lips. "But shh... Don't tell Val I said that."

Daya giggled and wrapped her arms around Jon one last time. Val came up to them and watched Daya run off to her mother and father inside the tunnel. "Don't tell Val what?" she asked Jon with a coy smirk.

"Daya is better than you with a bow," Jon admitted.

She punched his arm hard but laughed while she did it. "I know she is."

"Then why'd you punch me?"

"Because I can," Val grabbed Jon fiercely and held him close. "You should be with us."

"I want to be."

"Then why are you here!"

"You know why."

"Ugh!" Val groaned.

Jon cupped her face with a hand. "Take care of Tormund."

Val chuckled. "That big, ginger can take care of himself. Besides, I'm not going back to Mance."

Jon tilted his head. "Why? Where are you going?"

"Hardhome. Want to see if they need help. They haven't got as many people as we do in Mance, and I want to be close to the Wall."

"Why? Going to raid into the North?" said Jon slyly.

"Maybe I ought to. No! its to stay close to you, you fool!" Val forced Jon closer and kissed him hard. Jon felt her tongue dancing in his mouth, and when they parted, she gave him that smouldering grin that buckled his knees. "Don't do anything stupid, eh? I might see you sooner than you think, Jon Snow."

She broke the embrace suddenly and sauntered away, waving her hips as she walked. "How do you do it, Snow?" Tormund said, coming up beside Jon. "All these women all over you, Freefolk, southerners. I know it ain't ya pecker. How do you even ride the women with such a small thing?"

"Well I was always good at horse riding, riding dragons came easily. I guess it all just passed on to the women."

"Aye, you passed something onto the women, I'm sure!" Tormund bellowed with laughter and gave Jon a great bear hug. "Are you good here, Jon?" he asked after withdrawing from the embrace.

"I guess we'll see."

"We'll come by and visit sometime, maybe even stay a little longer, if the Commander and the Queen let us." Tormund suddenly lowered his voice. "Commander Crow asked you to inform on us, eh?"

Jon nodded.

"Bah, that's okay. I expected as much. You didn't tell anyone of our journey into the Lands of Always Winter though, did ya?"

"No," Jon said. That was something only for him and the Freefolk. At least for now.

"Good. That's a secret for us," Tormund said with a smile. "A great big fucking ice city is not something you see every day. I want the Freefolk to explore it themselves first."

"Be careful. That place was a death trap."

"I'm never careful, ha! But you, you be careful. I know the talk with your sister didn't go so well, she left early this morning without goodbyes."

"Yes, it was… different. We argued... we've argued in the past... but this time..."

"Brothers and sisters are like that. But Sansa, she cares for you Jon, and it's true that she feels bad for what she did."

"How do you know? Did you speak to her?"

Tormund shook his head sadly. "No, you don't need to talk to her to see the truth. It's right on her face when she looks at you. She only wants her brother back, and that's no bad thing."

"I'm not her brother though…”

"Jon," Tormund put a hand on his face. "You of all people know that a brother is not just blood." The men embraced once more, and, with sadness in the big man's eyes, Tormund left and disappeared into the tunnel and beyond the Wall.

As Jon stood alone, looking into the darkness of the tunnel, he glanced down to the cloak wrapped around him and held it tighter. He already missed Tormund, Val, Daya and the rest. But mostly, he missed Sansa, her wit, her smile, her blue eyes and her warm hugs. She had come and gone so soon, and he had taken it for granted. He yearned to see her once more and just say to her: "I forgive you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I put a little further insight into what I think happened to the seasons after the Long Night (I believe GRRM said that the long seasons are a cause of magic, so I've associated that to the NK.) And I threw in a little tease about what's further beyond the Wall. ;)
> 
> I've also introduced Val, a character from the books, but I've changed it slightly so that she was in the background of the show, rather than what she was in the books. Trying to meld both books and show can be difficult sometimes.


	25. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storm's End plays host to a wedding and tourney, though Tyrion's mind lies elsewhere with looming threats, both from home and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. Hope you are all staying healthy and that this chapter can help relieve some boredom many of us are experiencing. This chapter is likely UNFINISHED as there is still much to add, but I thought I would post it to get your opinions on it so far and also because I am taking too long to finish it, lol. Though I am uncertain if I will continue the story in this chapter in Tyrion's POV or in another, such as Sansa or Estyr's. The whole chapter was planned to be Tyrion's POV though it has become a lot larger than initially thought given that there is a wedding and tourney to take place and a few interesting moments in those. More story elements are making me think a Sansa POV would be more suitable, however. Anyhoot, please let me know what you think of it. I'm going back to playing Animal Crossing for now :)

"What about Lysara?" asked Bronn before throwing a handful of grapes in his mouth.

"No," Tyrion replied.

"Why not?" the grapes squelched in Bronn's mouth as he talked between chewing. "You can see the Valyrian in her."

"She's a whore, Bronn."

"Not just any whore, but a Lyseni whore."

Tyrion Lannister — the Hand of the King, shook his head disdainfully. He brought the bronze goblet to his lips and attempted to drink yet more of the Arbor Gold wine that sloshed in the cup as the carriage they travelled in, rocked across the Kingsroad. He shared this journey with Lord Bronn Blackwater, Master of Coin and Lord of Highgarden. Bronn dressed fancily, as he often did these days. His black hair, slick back against his scalp and his thin beard delicately cut and pampered. The Lord of Highgarden no longer wore armour, be it a padded doublet or mail, though he still hung a sword by his side, this one of castle forged steel ordered specially for himself by the best smith in King's Landing. He strapped it to his waist with a leather belt that had no adornments aside from the bronze buckle. He dressed in fine velvets, a blue tunic under a sable vest, brown pants and leather boots. Clasping his emerald coloured cloak below his throat was a pin, adorned with the sigil of House Blackwater — a green, flaming chain on a smoking grey field. Tyrion, in contrast, wore his black gambeson, clasped with bronze fastenings in the centre, over black trousers and leather boots. Over his left breast, he adorned the sigil of his office — the golden pin of the Hand of the King.

After leaving Bronzegate almost two days ago, they were nearing Storm's End, by Ser Brienne's last estimate, and the day was bright. A cloudless blue sky graced their journey, with happy chirps of birds and the noise of a king's procession racketing along the weary road. It was mere thirty people that left King's Landing — knights, squires, servants, and the handful of the Small Council lords. Though, that number grew to near one hundred, with the addition of people seeking the safety of the king's cavalcade — farmers, butchers, armourers, saddlers, and bakers all with the prospect of coin for their wares, wet on their lips. Then came the free riders, knights and lords of the Stormlands that joined the king and his parade down the Kingsroad. These people were intent to revel in the celebration, fights, feasts and lasciviousness of Gendry Baratheon's wedding, and the tourney to take place after.

“Since when have you turned down a whore anyway? You need yourself a woman, my Lord Hand," Bronn continued, throwing a few more grapes in his mouth. "Help get all that stress out of you. Blocked up from brain to balls you are."

"I do not need a woman," said Tyrion curtly. "I am Hand of the King. If I am not stressed, I am not doing my job."

"Well, you ain't enjoying it as much as you did when you were Hand last time. You revelled in it, all that scheming and lying and games you lords loved to do, and everyone was trying to kill you back then. Now you are an old moppy shit, keep carry on like this and you'll be a one-inch cock — useless."

"Fine words, as always. All things considered, I think I am doing quite well. Besides, this appointment was not my first choice, nor was it my last. Being Hand of the King again was never even on my list of things to do before I drown myself in wine."

"No, you've got to thank our gracious king for that. Wonder how he is doing in Anders’s company. Odd company to keep on such a long journey, eh?"

"Anders Allyrion is a Yronwood loyalist, as is his father and their House. There is a reason King Bran keeps close company to him."

Bronn gave a scornful laugh. "His Grace named Anders the _Master of Whispers_. The man sucks up to Prince Olyvar ass any chance he gets. If he whispers to the Small Council, he’s gonna whisper to the Prince of Dorne, and you lot think he is no good. Seems counter-intuitive."

"That's a big word for you," Tyrion mocked slyly. "Our king knows this, Bronn. But it will take more than whispers to deceive Bran the Broken. He intends to have Olyvar Yronwood, his House, and all their loyalists believe that they are in the king's good graces. But the truth is far different. Prince Olyvar grows ever paranoid, however, as does his ruthlessness. And we cannot stand for that."

"Then send a bloody army. Put the Yronwoods in line or put those Daynes in Sunspear. They seem to love that blistering hole."

Tyrion glared at Bronn lazily. "We do not have a strong army that we can levy. Years of war and destruction tend to do that. If we send a force into Dorne, it will not intimidate anyone."

"Of course it won’t. But you don't need a strong army for everything. Sometimes all it takes is good commanders to clear the field of shit heel morons. Especially against the Dornish with how they fight. Best fucking luck finding good commanders though."

"You could be a good commander."

Bronn shook his head quickly. "Get fucked, no more of that for me. I'm living the high life now. Nothing but wealth, wine and women. What about the North? Ask for their help? Their queen is our king's sister."

"Seems we might be on that path already. Bran has a plan that involves Queen Sansa, though I doubt she is aware of it. And there have been whispers from Essos, pieces moving and people forming. Our king believes Sansa will have much to do with it, as well as Dorne."

"If that dragon is involved in any way, I'm fucking out," Bronn said immediately, motioning a hand through the air to mimic a cut.

Tyrion smiled. "If only I were so lucky. Drogon would love to eat me all up. I bet I look like a nice roast chicken to him."

"Don't give me more of your self-pity cunt," Bronn chastened. "Speaking of pity, you looking forward to seeing her again? Your wife, _the Queen in the North_?"

"We are no longer married," Tyrion leaned over to the table and poured himself more wine, continuing as he did. "You know, I haven't been with a woman since I married Sansa."

Bronn guffawed. "Fuck me! Is it that bad? Well, maybe you don’t need a whore, maybe you need a _queen_ , eh? She hasn't remarried. A few drinks after Lord Baratheon's wedding might loosen you two up. Finally, consummate your vows."

Tyrion tilted his head back, downing a gulp of wine. "From what we've heard out of the North, men... marriage, they seem to be the last thing Sansa cares about."

"Give me an hour with her, and I'll change her mind," remarked Bronn.

Their arrival to Storm's End was met with a blast of horns from the walls of the imposing stronghold of pale grey stone, unweathered by the sea or storm. The castle rested on the bluffs of Duran's Point, and its single immense tower stood in the centre of the curtain wall — one hundred and fifty foot of thick stone, where the wind would find no passage. The tower itself was a colossal sight, the only tower in the whole castle yet it was a massive drum of smooth curving stone that rose four-hundred feet and seemed half as wide as the Red Keep of the Captial. Golden Baratheon banners danced faintly in the wind on the battlements atop the formidable tower. Strangely, this castle reminded Tyrion of Winterfell. _Perhaps it's the dull grey and imminent threat of doom the castle gives off._ He thought as they passed through the portcullis and beneath the gatehouse.

Inside the castle, hanging high from the inner walls, were the muscular black stags on the fields of more Baratheon banners. The golden velvet standards rippled above the courtyards along with white silk streamers adorned with embroidery of the seven-sided star of the Faith of the Seven, or stags and deer leaping happily together. They hung across the inner walls, over archways and across the wooden buildings reminding everyone of the splendour of their lord's wedding. The courtyards were alive with people — singers such as Baeleon of Tarth. The old man, Hamish the Harper. The once royal bard, Orland of Oldtown. Rymund the Rhymer. These minstrels fluttered through the crowds of the castle and amongst the king's procession itself, singing, plucking their harps, or blowing their flutes to a cacophonic melody that seemed to all intertwine together. Hog farmers, whores, septas and septons alike wondered about the castle amongst the commoners and servants. Merchants set up their stores. Armourer's apprentices raced through the courtyards peddling their master's wares to any who looked rich enough. Knights and their squires, free riders and warriors of little renown, or filled with self-importance, jostled to the massive training yard that Lord Baratheon had transformed into a jousting arena. These men marked with a fervent desire to put their names forward for the lists, the archery or the melee events in the days that would follow the wedding and claim the gold and glory for the titles. 

Tyrion recognised a handful of the knights and lords and their heraldry — Passing by Tyrion’s carriage was Edmure Tully standing out from the rest in glimmering plate adorned with leaping trouts, riding beside his wife and son and encircled by the Blackwoods — Brynden, Edmund and Alyn. Ser Lewys Piper, Ser Hugo and Ellery Vance. Ser Garret Paege. And the old landed knight, Ser Harys Haigh and his son Ser Walder. From the Reach, Tyrion spotted Mathis Rowan, standing beneath his golden tree banner with his wife and two of his daughters. Alyn Ambrose led his horse by its muzzle through the lists. Lords Varner, Beesbury, Appleton and Costayne of the Reach mixed amongst them. A small selection of Knights from the Vale passed by the lists, already having signed themselves on to the tourney, leading them was Lord Robin Arryn in between Lord Yon Royce and sitting high in his specially made saddle, Ser Roland Waynwood. Stormlords stood proud, showing off the strength of their great castle — The now fat-bellied Ser Herbert Bolling was laughing at his squire who failed at saddling a horse. Lord Sebastion Errol and Ser Addam Whitehead looked on, displeased. The only son of Cortnay Penrose, Endrew, conversed amongst other lords, knights and their squires — Rogers, Gower and Horpe. Finally, a small number of Dornishmen arrived last into the tourney grounds, they came to the wedding at the invite of King Bran, though Tyrion was surprised any of them turned up. At the head was Anders Allyrion’s father, Ryon Allyrion, two men beside him each carried a banner, one holding the golden hand of House Allyrion, the other the black castle portcullis of House Yronwood. Lord Gerris Drinkwater rode in behind, followed closely by the two knights of House Dalt of Lemonwood, Deziel and Andrey Dalt. And strangely to Tyrion, between them rode Sylva Santagar, the heiress to Spottswood.

Tyrion sighed and closed the curtain of his carriage, dwelling on the thought of what the coming days may bring. Soon enough his carriage came to a stop at the foot of the Great Tower, Tyrion followed Bronn, jumping out to an array of servants, squires, Riverlanders and Valemen just dismounting their horses, or readying themselves for the arrival of the King. Littered amongst the centre was a select few Stormlords, including Cortnay Penrose, standing tall with a stern face and red beard. Selwyn of Tarth looking much older now due to his heavy weight resting on a walking stick. In juxtaposition beside the Lord of Tarth was the thin lord, Aemon Estermont. In the middle, proud and smiling wide was the lord of the hour, Gendry Baratheon. Much in the image of his father, Robert Baratheon, Gendry had let his hair grow out and wore a golden velvet tunic underneath a padded vest decorated with stags on each breast, reeling on their hind legs. To his right was a young woman Tyrion did not recognise. She looked at least the same age as Gendry, with flowing dark brown hair and a long face. The tawny gown she wore, embroidered with white quills, highlighted her dark beauty and she stood confidently, making herself as tall as the rest. It did not take long for Tyrion to realise that this young woman was likely the Lord of Storm's End's wife to be. Finally, on Gendry's left was the Queen in the North. Sansa adorned herself in a grey dress garnished with red stitching of weirwood leaves, over which was a steel breastplate polished to a shine. A snarling direwolf pauldron aloft her left shoulder and on her scalp, resting on her plaited red hair, was the iron direwolf crown Tyrion had heard so much of.

"She going to battle?" Bronn whispered to Tyrion, speaking of Sansa.

"Let's hope not," Tyrion responded.

"I think she's just showing off."

"And you don't? The second you became a lord, you ditched all your clothes for some fancy silks and velvets."

"Course I did, wanted to be comfortable, didn't I? And I had the dragons and stags to pay for it. Doesn't mean I was showing off."

"You're a sellsword, Bronn. You're always showing off."

" _Former_ sellsword."

The King was lifted from his gilded carriage and wheeled through the yard towards Gendry and his lords. As he moved the king in his wheelchair, the sun gleamed off Podrick's golden armour, crested with a three-eyed raven in the centre of the breastplate. Lord Commander Ser Brienne of Tarth led them, her tall unmistakable gait with the clanging, gleaming armour was a worthy sight. Tyrion joined them as they passed him and Bronn, thankful that he was quick enough to miss Anders Allyrion who came in next to Bronn along with two other Kingsguard — Ser Alyn Estermont and Ser Horas Costayne. Bran himself glimmered with his gilded crown, and the bright sun lightened the dark blue doublet he wore, tied in its centre with gold fastenings. The whole courtyard began to kneel at the arrival of their king. Though, Sansa, being the only Northerner present and a queen, did not kneel to her younger brother. But when they stopped just before Gendry and his company, Tyrion welcomed the warm smile Sansa gave him when their eyes made contact.

Bran did not leave them kneeling for long before he spoke. "Please, stand. There is much celebration to be had and little time for kneeling." Brandon the Broken was a distant king, Tyrion knew it. Just as he was in Winterfell before his reign, Bran spoke rarely, and when he did, it was with few words and little detail — sometimes offering truly perplexing comments out of nowhere. Though his time as king seemed to lighten him some, whether that was because Bran was more used to his _abilities_ as the Three-Eyed Raven, or because he simply learned to have more of a personality over time, Tyrion did not know. He was grateful for it, however, as it made holding court back in King's Landing all that more manageable with a king that the people could talk to.

All those who knelt, followed Gendry after he rose to his feet, he stepped forward and gave Bran a short bow. "Good to see you, Your Grace. Welcome to Storm's End. I hope it is suitable for your first visit."

"I have been here many times," Bran responded, and the group just gawked, uncertain of what to say. "It is good to see you too, Lord Gendry. Your home is beautiful, as is your wife to be."

"Oh yeah," Gendry cleared his throat. "Your Grace, my lords, this is Lady Elyse Penrose." Gendry guided the young woman forward, and she did a quick curtsy to everyone. Upon the opportunity to look at her closer, Tyrion noticed that Lady Elyse Penrose had the stubborn look of her father, Cortnay Penrose, yet the familiar long face, dark, deep-set eyes and dark hair of someone from Gendry's past. Tyrion understood precisely why Gendry chose Elyse as his wife...

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my king," she said to Bran. "I am honoured to have both a king and queen in my new home."

"You won’t be saying that once we’ve eaten all your food." Came Sansa's voice as she stepped up next to Gendry and his future wife with a broad smile on her face. The sun glimmered off her crown and her breastplate almost blindingly. “Your Grace,” Sansa said to Bran.

"Your Grace," Bran responded in kind. “You brought your ward?”

"I did," Sansa answered curtly. Then, Queen Sansa threw out all customs and chose to hug her brother king. He welcomed her embrace, and no one decided to interrupt them. Though when they parted, Tyrion knew the time for greetings was over. The days coming were not only for celebration and festivities but for meetings and council of war and schemes that Tyrion wished he had no part in. 

"Should we head inside? There is much to do, after all." Tyrion offered.

"So soon, my lord?" said Elyse. "Would you all not like a tour of the castle yards? I've found beauty in the months I've spent here. It isn't just grey walls, I assure you."

Tyrion smiled at her. "It has been a long journey, my lady, and there is much to discuss before your wedding tomorrow night. I'm sure we will take a tour in the coming days."

"The coming days will be full of drunk men and tourney fighting. But _I am_ sure sitting in your carriage all journey _must_ have been tiring," Elyse replied bluntly. “So I understand, my Lord Hand.”

Tyrion caught the small grin on Sansa's lips, but it was Bran who spoke. "Lord Tyrion is right, my lady. We will move inside and settle from our journey."

Storm's End's single tower, the _Great Tower_ , was such a grand feat of construction that, as Tyrion ascended the levels of the tower, he passed by an armoury on one level, the next was a feast hall, above that a barracks and a then set of chambers for guests and family. What’s more, is that all these seemed to have plenty of room in all the quarters and halls and chambers for far more. When they finally reached the level they sought, Gendry led them into a large, nearly bare hall that he called the Round Hall, likely because it was round, and was a hall, Tyrion mused. The hall seemed to act as Storm's End's type of throne room, given due to a dais at the back with a throne of grey stone upon it, once belonging to the Storm King’s of old. (It undoubtedly matched the grey stone walls of the room and the whole place, despite its size and space, gave Tyrion an ill feeling of claustrophobia.) Heavy wooden tables and chairs sparsely littered around the hall, as did several windows along the walls, giving view to the blue sea to the east and the green lands to the west. A large hearth, built into the stone, curving on the east side wall, lit and warmed the room and Tyrion could feel the heat emanating from its great fire, even several feet away from where he walked by it. He sauntered along next to Queen Sansa and Ser Brienne pushing King Bran. With Lord Gendry and Lady Elyse leading them towards the back of the hall where a young, dark-haired girl in fine leathers and a man in steel direwolf crested armour stood before the dais. Tyrion noticed that the two seemed to be playing a game called Red Hands. They held their hands in front of themselves, in a prayer-like position. One would swing at the other's hand in an attempt to slap it hard. The other would need to be quick enough and move their hands away before that could happen. If they were successful, it would be their turn to take a swing. 

It seemed to be the man's turn to swing at his little opponent, but it was a heavy and slow swing, and the girl was far too quick for him. He cursed when he missed, and the girl giggled.

"My turn," she said joyfully. "Who was winning again?"

"Don't rub it in now, you wicked thing. You should be humble in your victory," the man groaned.

"I should be… but there’s no fun in that," suddenly the girl swung and slapped the man's hands with such ferocity, the foul curse he yelled made Tyrion jolt in his step.

"Aberdale, are you losing again?" Sansa said as she and the group stopped before the two.

"Aye, Your Grace, aye." Aberdale sighed.

The girl grinned whimsically. "Truly, Queen Sansa, I don't understand why Aberdale is your captain. He is just _so_ slow!"

"Careful girl, if you weren't the queen's ward, I'd give you a hidin'!" Aberdale Growled.

"Well, you've got to catch me first, big man. I don't think that's happening."

"You keep speaking like that, and I might just let Aberdale hit you a few times in a place other than your hands," Sansa said sternly. "That is not the way I taught you to speak, is it Estyr?"

The girl — Estyr, looked abashed. "No, my queen. I must always be courteous and respectful, even to my enemies. Courtesy is a lady's armour. That is what you taught me."

"Good," Sansa said, pleased. "It's been some time, but you should remember Lord Tyrion, Ser Brienne and King Bran."

"I do. Ser, my lord. Your Grace." As if just remembering, Estyr gave them all a quick curtsy. "It is a pleasure to see you all."

Tyrion grinned. "Curtsies don’t suit the leathers you're wearing. But you've certainly improved your manners since last we spoke in the Red Keep, Estyr. I do recall that you were born in Dorne, yes?"

Estyr looked at him suspiciously. “Yes…”

"And Dorne is still a part of the Six Kingdoms last I checked. The kingdoms Bran the Broken is _our_ king of."

Tyrion was surprised by how quick Estyr picked up on what he was meaning. She grimaced, "I'm a Northerner now."

A sudden small giggle came from Lady Elyse. "Oh, a Northmen and a Dornishmen? I've never met a commoner that was _both._ Come child, His Grace is your king."

Tyrion saw the flash of anger that marked Estyr's eyes as the Dornish girl stared at Elyse. But rather than let it out, she straightened herself and said: "Have you met many commoners, my lady?" Tyrion flicked his sights to Lady Elyse, whose lips went thin and angry at Estyr's comment. "I am sure marrying into a great family makes it all much simpler for you, Lady Elyse." Estyr continued. "But it was never simple for me. I ask for you and King Bran's forgiveness, but Winterfell is my home now, and Sansa Stark is my queen."

Elyse Penrose, soon to be Baratheon, glowered at Estyr. "You may dress and act like a noble, but you are still a commoner, Estyr of wherever." Elyse turned on her and spoke to everyone curtly. “If you would excuse me, I have a wedding to finish planning.”

As Elyse hurried from the hall, Tyrion spotted the faintest grin on Estyr. “You enjoy taunting people?” He asked.

“It’s all in a bit of fun,” Estyr replied, her grin turned sly and she took her attention to Gendry. "Are you marrying her because she looks like Arya, my lord?" Gendry looked on wide-eyed and startled, and Tyrion did his best to stifle his sudden laugh.

"Hardly appropriate, Estyr," Sansa said, though her tone suggested to Tyrion that she thought the same as the Dornish girl.

"I married her because she is a good woman," Gendry said sternly. "And her father's support will go along way..."

"Of course," both Sansa and Estyr said the words at the same time, both with a coy grin.

"How do you like Winterfell, Estyr?" Bran asked suddenly.

Estyr smiled at him. "It can be a bit cold, Your Grace, but I like it."

"There is much history to Winterfell and the North," Bran said. "Just as there is much history to Dorne and your former home there. I understand why you see yourself as a Northerner now, but you should not forget where you came from, and what it means." 

Estyr's eyes went sharp as she began to study Bran with a piercing curiosity and Tyrion himself took the opportunity to listen hard on what the girl had to say, though he was surprised by her reaction. "Is there truth to what people say about you, Your Grace?" She began. "That you can see all the past, present and future?"

A thin smile came to Bran. "I see quite a lot."

"Can you see my past? Where I come from, the people who saved me, who died for me for no reason?"

"There is always a reason," Bran said calmly. "Perhaps now is not the best time or place to discuss that. We have council."

It was several moments until Estyr begrudgingly accepted her removal from the room so that the council may take place. She defied the first request for her to leave, saying that she wanted to speak to Bran further. When that failed, she clung to Gendry, offering kind words and flashes of her smile, hoping the Stormlord would allow her to stay. Though when he refused, Estyr finally pleaded with Sansa, saying that because Sansa let her join in council at Winterfell, Estyr ought to join this one. But after several stern words of discouragement from _her queen_ , Estyr — frustrated such that it was humouring to Tyrion — left the hall with Captain Aberdale. Subsequent to their leaving, the rest of the Small Council appeared in the Round Hall. Grandmaester Samwell Tarly entered, slugging along in a heavy blue maester’s robe that was too big for him and carrying books, and around his neck as usual, his thick maester's chain of ringed metals that clinked and rang with every step. He smiled wide, rattling everybody's (particularly Sansa's) ears with the events of the journey and how much his wife Gilly and their sons Sam and Jon enjoyed the countryside. Bronn came in next, cutting slices off an apple with a small knife and throwing them in his mouth as he casually greeted people. Anders Allyrion followed him, the Master of Whispers seemed to slide across the floor in slender golden robes, trimmed with red lace. As he entered and met with the room, he gave particular attention to Sansa. Tyrion could not hear the words between the two, but he could see Sansa's disinterested expression comparative to the slyness of Anders’s. At the close of their conversation, Lord Allyrion slid a swift hand forward and grabbed Sansa's, placing a soft kiss on the back of her hand. She let him do it, though she was quick to take her hand back. Tyrion allowed a smile at the event, then jolted slightly when a palm clasped his shoulder.

"Now why couldn't we have a nice trip and celebration without one of these fucking meetings?" Bronn said from beside him.

"You wanted to be a great lord; this is what that role entails," Tyrion answered. "It's a bit late to be complaining."

"I'm not complaining."

"You should look up the definition of the word because it certainly sounds like that's what you're doing.

"All I'm saying, is that all these cunts think they are the smartest cunts in the room. It can be tiring," said Bronn.

"Do you include yourself in that equation?" Tyrion asked, amused.

Bronn chuckled and patted his hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "My lord, if I weren't a smart cunt, I'd have died a long time ago." 

Tyrion gave a smile once more and Bronn snickered, then left to take a seat at the table that Gendry had prepared in the Round Hall. It was a large table made from a sentinel tree, so wide and long it was more than enough to seat two Small Councils. As the other lords and the Queen in the North took their seats, Lord Davos Seaworth and Lady Belynda Rowan finally entered and took their places. Though the freckles on Belynda's face assumed innocence, it was often stern, as she was a woman with an inherent disposition to justice. The third and oldest daughter of Mathis Rowan and Bethany Redwyne, Lady Belynda came from two of the strongest Houses in the Reach and was sought out by Bran himself, to ask her to become the Six Kingdom's new Master of Laws.

When all were seated, Tyrion stood next to King Bran in his chair and spoke. "My lords, my ladies. Your Graces. Thank you all for being here for this sudden council, there are matters that need our attention. We are here at Lord Baratheon's pleasure, and it is important that he hears what we discuss today. Though many of you may be wondering why the Queen in the North is a part of this council. That is because our king believes what we address will involve the North, and we are nothing but allies to our northern brethren. And this wedding offers us a unique opportunity for our kingdoms to speak and work together." Tyrion smiled and gestured languidly toward the other end of the table, where Sansa and Gendry sat. Then he turned to Bran. "Your Grace..."

King Bran did not butter his words. "There is movement in Essos. Sellsword armies are gathering under a single banner."

"That won't last," Bronn told it matter-of-factly.

"It did with the Golden Company," replied Davos.

"Not the same. It would take a lot of fucking coin and smart man to join sellsword companies together that have been fighting each other for years."

"That is exactly what they have," remarked Tyrion. “The leader of the Second Sons has gained considerable wealth and has managed to join his company with three others, possibly more. Their alliance shows no sign of breaking."

"Do you think they could be a threat?" Lord Commander Brienne asked.

King Bran nodded. "I believe their target to be Westeros." 

"Are you certain, Your Grace?" asked Lady Belynda.

"I have seen them, and we have other reports. Lord Anders?"

The thin Dornish lord cleared his throat and spoke in his silky voice. "I have heard murmurs from whores in the Free Cities who often get sellswords for clientele. They say many men are looking for a great sellsword army to the east just before Dragon's Bay. They also tell me, that word is; Westeros is weak and plentiful."

"How many is this army meant to have?" asked Brienne.

"Uncertain, but if they keep gathering, it could go as high as twenty thousand," Anders answered curtly.

"For fuck sake," Lord Davos blurted. "Could this planet not go without a war for one year?" The table filled with murmurs and oft glances, though Tyrion noticed the intensity in Sansa's eyes as she seemed to stare off into the distance, deep in thought. Then she blinked and spoke.

"Who leads them?" Sansa asked. 

The way she asked the question, made Tyrion think she already knew the answer but he gave it to her regardless. "They claim to work together, sharing the leadership, Your Grace. Though, upon King Bran's inspections, Daario Naharis seems to be the one making the final decisions, being the one who founded the army. He is the leader of the Second Sons."

"And one of Daenerys Targaryen's former commanders," Sansa added dully. "They will come North?"

"They may," Bran answered

Lord Anders chortled. "What could they possibly want with the North? There are no riches in those lands. Meaning no offence Queen Sansa."

"There is one," Bran replied, staring directly at Sansa as he did. Sansa averted her gaze and stood from her chair, she ambled from the table, stopping before a nearby window.

"Well, they won't get far, even with twenty thousand men," Bronn stated.

"Even if we were to join with the North, our total numbers would be less than ten thousand. Am I right, Lord Commander?" Davos said.

Brienne nodded. "We received figures last month from the kingdoms regarding how many men they can each levy. The greatest come from the Reach, the Riverlands and here in the Stormlands. But with all the recent wars, even their numbers are low. And given the civil war in Dorne--"

"There is no civil war in Dorne, Ser Brienne," Lord Anders cut in. "A few rowdy lesser houses is not a war. Even our king agrees."

Scowling at Anders, Brienne cleared her throat and continued. "Even still, their figures cannot be reliable. So the number of men we can levy to defend Westeros will be minor compared to whatever comes from Essos."

"It's got nothing to do with numbers," Bronn spat. "You could send fifty thousand men into the North, and they'll gain about as much land as their three-inch cocks. They'll either attack from the sea or gain a foothold in the Six Kingdoms and leave the North till last."

"Are you the Master of Coin, or the Master of War?" Brienne scolded.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Lord Blackwater is right, Ser Brienne," Sansa spoke evenly as she gazed out the window to the eastern sea below the castle, crashing upon the rocks of Duran's Point. "The North is impenetrable. It has never been conquered. And it will not be conquered while I am Queen. I don't know Daario Naharis, but given what he has accomplished and his previous roles, I gather that he isn't a stupid man. He won't risk his army on a futile attack on the North. He may do as Lord Blackwater suggested, but I would not put him beyond infiltration attempts, both in the North and the Six Kingdoms."

"What do you suggest?" asked Bran.

Sansa turned and walked back over to the table. "Prepare our armies as best we can. If Westeros is a target for these sellswords, then battles are inevitable no matter how they intend to begin the war. We should keep an eye on the Narrow Sea, checking any ships and their colours, as well as being careful of traders, whalers and mummer troupes from Essos that could act as spies for Daario Naharis. I have a fleet of twenty ships at White Harbor that I will have patrol the Narrow Sea on our eastern border. The castles and forts of Ramsgate, Widow's Watch and Karhold will also be keeping a weather eye on waters. And I'll ask the Night's Watch if they can do the same at Eastwatch by the Sea."

"A good plan," Bran said. "We should do the same. From the Salt Shore to the Three Sisters, the Narrow Sea will be observed. Lord Davos, how does the Royal Fleet look?"

Davos thought for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Well, with the recent income of timber from the Wolfswood, courtesy of Queen Sansa, it will allow us to continue building. Once those ships are finished, we will have thirty-four in our fleet."

"Very well. Lord Gendry, I ask that you advise your lords to keep a particular eye open. The Islands of Taarth and Estermont will be of great value to our needs."

"' Course, Your Grace," Gendry said enthusiastically. "I'll have them send me weekly reports, anything that I feel is urgent, I'll forward to King's Landing."

"Isn't this all a bit much, eh?" Bronn interjected. "I mean, forgive me, Your Grace. But couldn't you just watch the sellswords with your _abilities_ like you've been doing?"

"Yes, I could," Bran admitted. "But I have six kingdoms to rule, and I cannot be everywhere at once. If I were to focus on Essos, I would be abandoning my kingdoms and its injustices. Such as the injustice you recently committed, Lord Bronn."

"What?" Bronn threw out, perplexed.

"You have increased the tax in the Reach by five times as much as it was. Why?"

"Well I've got food to give to the Capital, I've got to pay for a way to transport it all don't I?”

"My investigation suggests that your increase of; seventy-five silver stags or fifty golden dragons, is far too excessive," Lady Belynda told it. "As Master of Coin, my lord, you should know this. Unfortunately, I have also heard reports that you may even be keeping the excess gold for yourself, rather than paying it forward to those working the transports or the fields."

"Is that right?" Bronn said, visibly annoyed. "I'm the Lord Paramount of the Reach, your liege lord, Belynda. You should be telling me all this."

Bran spoke in a hard voice. "Lady Belynda is doing her role as Master of Laws. You, however, are abusing your powers as a lord. Lower the tax and pay your people their coin."

"Or what!"

"Or I will strip every title from you, and you will be less than a sellsword."

Tyrion looked on, as Bronn uncomfortably straightened himself in his chair. Lord Bronn said nothing more, but Tyrion knew that his silence meant his acceptance of King Bran's judgment. _Not such a smart cunt, Bronn_ , thought Tyrion with a smirk.

"If everyone is finished, I believe this concludes today's council," Tyrion said.

"I'm not," Sansa stated, still standing before the table. "King Bran, have you any word of Drogon?"

"I last saw him flying beyond the Shadowlands," Bran answered.

"Word is you've thrown some of those scorpions up on the battlements of Winterfell. Worried he might come back and roast your little crown?" Bronn said scathingly, his tone was marked by irritation due to the reprimand he had just received.

Before Sansa could rebuke Bronn, Grandmaester Samwell put a hand forward. "If I may... Queen Sansa is perfectly rational to fear Drogon coming back, as should we all be. Archmaester Ebrose and I agree that Drogon's time in Essos could be a form of mourning and _soul searching_ to an extent. Dragons are believed to be intelligent creatures; some have the opinion that they are more intelligent than men. So, perhaps once he is done in Essos, he could seek vengeance or answers for what happened to his mother."

"Jon killed his mother, that's what happened," Davos said frankly.

Samwell nodded hurriedly "Yes, yes, but it is the path to those events transpiring that Drogon may soon come to dwell on if he's not done so already. Men do the same thing, it is the unanswered, the unknown that we fear, that we strive to know and understand. And those events Drogon could dwell on, unfortunately, include most of us in this room. Queen Sansa far more, given her direct involvement in Daenerys Targaryen's death. So really, the question of Drogon’s whereabouts and how best we defend ourselves, grow more important every day."

"Long as he stays away, I don’t care to talk about him,” said Bronn sourly. “Seeing a dragon once in my life is more than enough. And all this philosophy talk isn’t going to matter, because if he does come back, we're all fucked. A few scorpions won't stop him. Trust me, I shot the fucker and it didn’t so much as tickle him.”

“My men won’t miss,” Sansa said.

“I’m sure Cersei thought the same. She had an entire city full of scorpions and that big fucker learnt how to beat ‘em. He was faster, smarter and angrier, and now Cersei is dead. So unless you got something special hidden away in that fancy breastplate, I wouldn’t bet on you.”

“I must agree with Lord Bronn, Your Grace,” Anders slithered in. “Given what happened to King’s Landing, the likelihood of Winterfell surviving a dragon attack are not considerable in the least. But I hear tell that your sister is a great hero, she slew the Night King? Why not a dragon, hmm?”

“Arya Stark is a great hero, but she has done more than enough. When she returns from the west, she will return to a peaceful home. Not to a war. Dragons or not.” Sansa’s face showed no sign of apprehensiveness, anger or annoyance. It was as stoic as Tyrion could have ever seen it. “Now, I do appreciate your concern, my lords. But it is unnecessary. If Drogon comes to Winterfell, he will die at Winterfell.”

"I wish I had your confidence, Your Grace," Davos said after a short silence. “I think I’m about done with all this talk of dragons though.”

“Agreed,” Tyrion added. "This council is over. Keep in mind what we have spoken about today, it could be years before anything happens regarding the sellsword army, if it ever does. But we must remain vigilant for the time being. Lord Gendry, Queen Sansa, if you would stay a moment. We have received word from Lady Arya."

The mismatched members of the Small Council began to leave. Bronn stepped out on his own in a brusque pace. Anders Allyrion shuffled next to Lady Belynda, whispering in her ear. Samwell, Davos and Brienne all walked together from the hall in an intent conversation, leaving a king, a queen and two unlikely lords alone in the dull grey room.

Gendry rose from his chair as soon as the last left, and the door to the hall closed hard. "Word from Arya?"

Tyrion shook his head sadly. "No, sorry, Gendry. I said that to mask the real reason Bran, and I ask you here."

Gendry could not hide the disappointment in his eyes. "Oh... so nothing from Arya's or her ship since that letter from Tessa Fairmanne?"

"Can you not see her, Bran?" Sansa added, her eyes full of pleading for her sister's whereabouts.

"I'm afraid not," Tyrion answered. "Bran has tried to see her, but..."

"I lost her when Grey Wind went into the storm. I've not been able to see her since," Bran said sullenly. "I'm sorry, Sansa."

She looked to the floor a moment, hiding her face, then tentatively removed the iron crown from her plaited red hair and placed it on the table before her. "You have us here regarding Estyr and Dorne, I imagine."

"Yes," said Bran. "Tyrion knows about Estyr. It is time Gendry knew too."

"What should I know?" Gendry asked with uncertainty.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "Gendry, the Dornish girl, Sansa's ward... She is not the common girl that she would like everyone to think she is."

"Yeah, I knew that. I ain't stupid."

"Precisely why we trust you," Tyrion jested. "Though she is more than a lost lady, she is Estyr Martell, the Princess of Dorne."

"Princess! Dorne! Bloody... I thought she was just a lady who didn't want to be a lady, like Arya, you know? A princess though... does this have something to do with the unrest in Dorne?"

"It has everything to do with it," Tyrion said. "And it is a civil war, not unrest, no matter how much Lord Anders may deny it, it always will be a civil war. Estyr's existence is known to many of the houses who fight against Prince Olyvar's rule, though some believe she is either long dead or simply a story. Yet we have reason to believe that Prince Olyvar and his allies do not know much of Estyr, they don't know her name, what she looks like or where she is... though, that may very well change today." Tyrion caught Sansa's eye, and she quickly glanced away. "Why did you bring Estyr here, Sansa? A Dornish girl amongst Northmen will stand out, and there are Dornishmen here, loyal to the Yronwoods, and not just Anders Allyrion. I don't doubt that you knew they would be here." 

"I did," Sansa admitted. She walked backed to the window she stood at earlier and continued. "I'm glad they're here. I want them to see her. I want them to know that a Dornish Princess exists and for that word to spread. She has been hidden away for too long, and if the civil war in Dorne is too end in our favour, then the houses fighting against Prince Olyvar need a figure they can fight for, that they can see and believe in, or else it will wither down and die out, as it has already begun to do with the siege of Starfall."

Tyrion grew aggravated. "You are putting Estyr, and yourself at great risk. Not only from attacks by Olyvar, but we would not put it beyond him to hire Faceless Men to kill the girl and you too."

"Arya was a Faceless Man. You think I didn't ask her all about them?"

"You may know what they can do Sansa, but you will never see them do it. Arya is proof of that."

"Okay, hold on!" Gendry interrupted. "Can someone bloody explain all this to me. I was told all the Martells were dead, and now there's suddenly a child? Why are you doing all this for Dorne? Why am I involved now? And what happened to Starfall?"

It was Bran who answered Gendry, in his calm monotone way. "Estyr was born into a life of hiding and was taught early on of the importance of staying hidden. Doran Martell had his last child protected in his castle, as his body withered he feared for his family and his home. When Oberyn Martell died, Doran mourned for his brother, yet he saw the writing on the wall and had Estyr taken to Starfall where she stayed in secret, even after the rest of her family were betrayed by the Sand Snakes and they took rule. After the Sand Snakes died, an absence of power in Dorne was created, and a civil war broke out. One side, led by Olyvar Yronwood, seeking a chance to gain power over Dorne that he believed his house deserved. The other, led by the Daynes of Starfall, who held fierce loyalty to the Martells, and claimed to have their heir. Though as the battles waged closer and closer to the Daynes home, the risk to Estyr's life grew. So she fled with Lady Allyria Dayne to King's Landing. Now Starfall has fallen into the hands of the Yronwoods, and those who fight against them dwindle in number and conviction, believing the heir the Daynes had, was simply a story they used as to gain more men so they could take power in Sunspear. We do this all for Estyr and Dorne, because the truth is, an heir lives and if Prince Olyvar gains complete control of Dorne, thousands more will die. Yet, with Sansa’s tutelage, we believe Estyr to become a great ruler for Dorne, for her people and for the betterment of Westeros."

Silence fell, as Gendry began to process all of what Bran said, though, with the urgency of time, Tyrion finished for Bran. "We tell you, Gendry because your lands hold a great overwatch over the Narrow Sea. When we asked for you to keep an eye on ships from Essos, we also need you to watch those coming to and from Dorne. Though you must keep that a secret and only tell those that you completely trust, Olyvar has spies just as we do. We also must be aware that Olyvar could hire the growing sellsword company in Essos, to aid him in some way. It's not beyond normality for Westeros, and Daario Naharis may very well take the opportunity when he realises how much strife it would cause." 

Gendry studied them all, filling the awkwardness with nothing but uncertain glances. Finally, he rested his eyes on Sansa, who herself was looking intently at the young Stormlord. "There's got to be more in it for you, Sansa. What do you get out of helping Estyr and Dorne?" he asked her.

Sansa walked calmly back to the table, picked up her crown and rested it on her red-haired scalp. "Peace."

" _And?_ "

"Dorne."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I understand that Cortnay Penrose is dead in the books, though he was not mentioned in the show, and I needed someone like him with his power and status to fill that role. I didn't want to simply create more people that didn't have a history. :)


End file.
